Chapter 21: Desk Job Corruption
The office at night was a tomb of forgotten intentions. Taichi stood in the center of the cubicle farm, the ghostly glow of dormant monitors painting his face in shades of blue and gray. The air conditioning had shut off hours ago, leaving a thick silence broken only by the occasional hum of a server or the dying flicker of a fluorescent tube overhead. It smelled of dust, recycled air, and beneath it all, the sweet, coppery tang that now followed him everywhere.
Van was a deeper shadow against the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the city’s grid. “This place holds no strong resonance,” he mused, his voice barely a vibration in the stillness. “But hunger is not always about feast. Sometimes it is about… tidying up.”
Taichi understood. The restlessness hadn’t left him since the alley. The frat boys’ energy had been acrid, unsatisfying. It had left an itch, a need to exert a more precise control. He’d thought of Hiroshi.
Hiroshi from IT. Hiroshi who would stammer when Taichi asked him to look at a frozen spreadsheet, whose eyes would dart away, then sneak back to linger on the curve of Taichi’s ass as he walked back to his desk. A shy, unspoken want that had been a background noise in Taichi’s old life. Now it sounded like a dinner bell.
The click of a keycard in the main door lock was deafening. A sliver of light from the hallway pierced the gloom, then vanished as the door shut. Footsteps, hesitant, then the sound of a bag being dropped by a desk.
Taichi smiled into the darkness. Van’s form dissolved, melting into the pooling shadows beneath the cubicle walls. The exits, Taichi knew without looking, would now be subtly obscured, a trick of the eye that would turn a known hallway into a confusing maze.
He moved silently, his shoes left by the fire escape. The cool linoleum was smooth under his socks. He followed the sounds of shuffling, the soft tap of keyboard keys. Hiroshi was working late, a common excuse for a man who had nowhere better to be.
He found him at the central printer alcove, feeding a stack of reports into the automated collator. The machine whirred and chugged, its rhythmic noise masking Taichi’s approach.
“Couldn’t sleep either, Hiroshi?”
Hiroshi jumped, fumbling the papers. His glasses slipped down his nose. “Taichi! Jesus, you scared me. What are you… why are you here?” His eyes, wide behind the lenses, took in Taichi’s appearance—the undone shirt, the lack of shoes, the predatory stillness.
“Just felt like coming back to my desk.” Taichi took a step closer. The copier’s green ready light painted Hiroshi’s face in an eerie wash. “You know how it is. Things left unfinished.”
He moved past him, letting his hip brush against Hiroshi’s thigh. He stopped at the large photocopier, leaning back against its warm, glass surface. “Actually, I have a confession.”
Hiroshi was frozen, a rabbit sensing the wolf but not yet understanding the shape of its teeth. “A confession?”
“Yeah.” Taichi’s voice dropped to a purr. “I’ve noticed you. Noticing me.”
Hiroshi’s blush was immediate and deep, visible even in the poor light. “I—I don’t know what you—”
“You’ve been staring at my ass for months,” Taichi stated, flatly, mercilessly. “Every time I walk away from your desk. You think I didn’t feel it?” He pushed off from the copier, closing the distance. He pressed Hiroshi back against the machine, his body pinning him there. “All that shy, hungry looking. It’s kinda cute.”
“Taichi, please…” Hiroshi’s protest was weak, his body already betraying him. Taichi could feel the hard line of his erection pressing against his own thigh.
“Please what?” Taichi’s hand came up, not to caress, but to firmly unfasten Hiroshi’s belt. The buckle clinked loudly in the humming silence. “Please stop? Or please continue?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He popped the button of Hiroshi’s slacks, yanked the zipper down. The fabric fell open. Taichi’s hand dipped inside, past the waistband of his briefs, and wrapped around Hiroshi’s cock. It was hot, already fully hard and leaking at the tip.
Hiroshi gasped, his head thunking back against the copier. “Oh god.”
“Not god,” Taichi whispered, sinking to his knees on the hard floor. “Just me.”
He didn’t tease. He took Hiroshi’s cock into his mouth in one smooth, deep swallow, forcing it to the back of his throat. Hiroshi cried out, a sharp, broken sound that echoed off the filing cabinets. Taichi worked him with a brutal, expert efficiency, his head bobbing, his tongue pressing hard along the vein underneath. He used his hand at the base, twisting on the upstroke. It was not meant to pleasure; it was meant to dominate, to overwhelm.
“Fuck… Taichi… I’m gonna…” Hiroshi stammered, his hands fluttering, then tangling in Taichi’s hair, gripping tightly.
Taichi pulled off with a wet pop. He looked up, his lips slick and swollen. “Not yet.” He stood up in one fluid motion. He turned around, bending over the low table next to the copier, stacked with reams of paper. He shoved them to the floor with a crash. Then he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his own loose trousers and pushed them down, along with his underwear.
He presented himself, bare under the stark office lights. The slick, glistening evidence of his transformation was fully on display.
“Or,” Taichi said, glancing over his shoulder, his voice a low taunt, “do you want my other hole first?”
Hiroshi’s breath hitched. He stared, his mind trying to process the impossible anatomy, the offer that short-circuited every moral and physical rule he knew. The hunger in his eyes battled with sheer terror. Hunger won. He fumbled with his pants, pushing them down past his knees. He didn’t prepare himself. He didn’t prepare Taichi. He just lined up his aching cock and, with a desperate, gratifying moan, pushed into the tight, waiting heat of Taichi’s cunt.
“Yes… fuck, yes…” Hiroshi chanted, gripping Taichi’s hips, pounding into him with the clumsy, frantic energy of a man who’d only ever fantasized. The copier rattled with each thrust.
Taichi let him. He absorbed the frantic, shallow strokes, the helpless grunts. He felt the building tension in Hiroshi’s body, the coiling spring about to snap. Just as Hiroshi’s rhythm became ragged, as his thrusts grew wild and uneven, Taichi clenched.
It was a vice. A perfect, sudden lock of internal muscle that gripped Hiroshi’s cock like a fist.
Hiroshi’s orgasm was ripped from him. It wasn’t a release; it was an extraction. A white-hot surge that Taichi siphoned away the moment it was born. But it didn’t stop there. Taichi held him inside, the siphon wide open, and began pulling deeper. He drew on the well of Hiroshi’s quiet life—his loneliness, his timid desires, his late nights in this very office.
Hiroshi tried to scream. A weak, airless sound. He shuddered violently, his hands slipping from Taichi’s hips. His glasses fell to the floor, the lenses cracking on the linoleum. His thrusts became weak tremors, then ceased entirely. He slumped forward, his weight leaning onto Taichi’s back, his cock still trapped inside as the last flickers of his essence were drained.
Taichi released him. Hiroshi slid out, collapsing onto the scattered paper in a boneless heap, breathing in shallow, mechanical gasps. His eyes were open, empty.
Taichi stood, pulling his clothes back up. He felt… cleaner. This one had been simple. A wanted thing, taken efficiently. No rage, no fight. Just consumption.
Van materialized from the shadow of a water cooler, his form condensing into solidity. He stepped over Hiroshi’s body without a glance and approached Taichi. He cupped Taichi’s face, his thumb stroking over his cheekbone.
“Better?” Van asked, his voice like stone smoothing silk.
“Clearer,” Taichi replied, leaning into the touch.
Van’s eyes shifted past him, toward the main office door. A new, different energy prickled at the edge of Taichi’s awareness. It wasn’t hunger or desire. It was cold, focused intent.
“The janitors?” Taichi whispered.
“No,” Van said, a faint, intrigued smile touching his lips. “Something else has come looking. They felt the draw. The vacancy you create.”
Through the glass wall of the conference room, Taichi saw them. Three figures in dark, impeccably tailored suits, standing just inside the main office door. They were utterly still, their faces pale and unreadable in the gloom. They were staring directly at him.
One of them raised a hand, a stark white contrast against his black sleeve, and pointed a single, accusatory finger directly at Taichi’s heart.
“It seems,” Van murmured, his possessive grip tightening on Taichi’s shoulder, “your portfolio is attracting new investors.”