Chapter 15: The After-Work Surprise
The silence of the mansion after Chad left for his night shift at the gym was a tangible thing, thick and textured. Marcus stood in the center of the vast, cool kitchen, his fingers still tingling from the keys of his laptop. The “Asset Management Protocol” document was saved, encrypted, hidden within a folder labeled “Tax Forms 2019.” It was a blueprint for a siege, and looking at it had left him feeling both energized and hollow.
He moved through the rooms, turning off lights Chad had left blazing. His body felt like a rented costume, one he was still learning how to move in without tripping. The sheer robe from his first disastrous night here hung on the back of the bedroom door. He stared at it. A symbol of passive, horrified shock.
Not anymore.
He heard the low hum of the garage door opener, then the heavy tread of boots in the mudroom. Chad was home early. Marcus’s pulse, annoyingly, gave a little skip. Not from attraction, he told himself. From the sudden need to switch modes. To perform.
He listened. Chad dumped his gym bag, grunted, headed straight for the master suite. The shower hissed to life a moment later.
Marcus’s feet were quiet on the polished concrete floors. He approached the bathroom door, left ajar. Steam, smelling of Chad’s eucalyptus body wash, curled out into the cooler air of the bedroom. Through the fogged glass of the shower enclosure, he could see the blurred, monumental shape of Chad moving under the spray.
He didn’t hesitate. He shrugged off his soft loungewear, letting the fabric pool at his feet. The air was cool on his skin, raising goosebumps. He picked up the sheer robe and put it on, not for modesty, but as a prop. The silky material clung to nothing, a transparent suggestion.
He pushed the bathroom door fully open. The room was a sauna, mirror completely fogged. The sound of the water was a steady, pounding rain. He padded to the shower, his bare feet leaving faint prints on the damp tile. He slid the heavy glass door open just enough to slip inside.
The steam enveloped him, hot and dense. Water instantly plastered the robe to his skin, rendering it utterly pointless. It became a second, shimmering, cling-film layer.
Chad turned, water sluicing over the broad planes of his shoulders and chest. His eyes, always so lazily confident, widened a fraction. He looked Marcus up and down, a slow, appreciative scan. A smile touched his lips.
“Hey, big guy,” Marcus purred. The line felt absurd in his head, but he fed it the breathy, performative energy he’d practiced. He stepped forward, under the direct spray, until the heat of Chad’s body was a radiator against his front. The soaked, sheer robe was a negligible barrier.
He reached down, his smaller hand encircling Chad where he was already half-hard, reacting on pure biological instinct to the visual. Marcus applied a firm, knowing pressure. He’d learned the mechanics. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.” He tilted his head up, water streaming down his face, beading on his eyelashes. “Which part of me do you want first? My tits, my ass, or my pussy?”
He said the words cleanly, without a flinch. They were inventory. Assets on the spreadsheet, listed in order of perceived market value.
Chad’s response was a low growl, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His hands came up, big and possessive, one cupping the back of Marcus’s head, the other grabbing a handful of his ass through the soaked silk. “All of it,” Chad breathed, his mouth close to Marcus’s ear, the words barely audible over the water. “But first, turn around and bend over.”
A command. Simple. Direct.
For a fraction of a second, Marcus’s old self, the accountant in a soft body, recoiled. But that self was archived. He met Chad’s heated gaze and saw not a lover, but a client. A demanding, high-value stakeholder whose satisfaction was key to operational continuity.
He gave a small, compliant nod. He turned, his back now to Chad’s chest. He placed his hands, palms flat, on the sleek teak shower bench, bending at the waist. The position was vulnurabile, exposing. He felt the water hitting his lower back, his thighs. He felt Chad’s hands on his hips, aligning him. The chill of the shower air on his wet skin where Chad wasn’t touching him.
He closed his eyes. He didn’t need to see. He focused on the sensory data, divorcing it from any meaning. The scrape of calloused thumbs on his hip bones. The blunt, insistent pressure. The sharp, burning stretch as Chad pushed into him, no finesse, just claiming occupancy.
Marcus gritted his teeth, his fingers curling against the wet wood of the bench. A sound was torn from him, not a cry of pleasure, but a harsh gasp of adjustment, swallowed by the shower’s white noise.
Chad set a relentless, pounding rhythm. His grip on Marcus’s hips was iron, surely leaving bruises. He was a force of nature, a turbine. His grunts were rhythmic, punctuating each thrust. “Yeah… that’s it… take it…”
Marcus floated. He became an auditor of his own body. He noted the physiological responses with detached interest: the way his traitorous nerve endings fired off signals his brain refused to interpret as anything but intrusive data; the strain in his thighs and shoulders from holding the position; the slap of wet skin on skin, a crude percussion under the shower's spray. He thought about the water bill. He calculated the caloric burn of the activity. He mentally drafted a follow-up email to the clinic’s legal department.
“You feel that?” Chad grunted, his voice strained. “You’re mine. All of this. Mine.”
The words were the key. They snapped Marcus back into the moment, not with passion, but with cold clarity. Mine. The ultimate stakeholder statement. Chad wasn’t making love. He was executing a proprietary claim.
A dark, ironic laugh bubbled up inside Marcus, but he stifled it, letting it out as a shaky, convincingly passionate moan. He pushed back against Chad, not in desire, but in confirmation. Yes. Yours. This asset. This functions
This asset. This function. Marcus leaned into the act, moaning with a high, breathy pitch he’d heard in bad porn. He screamed, “Oh god, yes!”, the words cracking against the tile, a perfect imitation of wanton sorority girl enthusiasm. He pushed his ass back against Chad’s hips with a convincing rhythm, his mind a blank, white screen of static.
Suddenly, Chad stopped.
He pulled out, his dick hard and slick. His breathing was ragged. He turned Marcus around by the shoulder, his grip firm. The water cascaded over both of them. Chad’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with a lust that demanded participation, not just compliance.
“Okay, babe,” Chad panted, a cocky smirk playing on his lips. He stroked himself slowly, his gaze locked on Marcus’s mouth. “Show me how much you like my cock. Don’t just lay there.”
The shift was instantaneous, a new demand in the protocol. Marcus felt a cold wave of revulsion crash over the static in his mind. His throat tightened. He pushed it down, burying it under layers of performance.
“Okay, baby,” Marcus cooed, his voice a sugary whisper. He dropped to his knees on the hard, wet shower floor, the impact a dull shock. He looked up through his lashes, the spray hitting his cheeks like tears. He took Chad into his mouth.
The taste was a blunt, salty reality. The texture, the unfamiliar pressure against his tongue and the back of his throat, triggered a primal gag reflex he forcefully suppressed. His internal monologue was a silent, frantic scream of revulsion. This is not me this is not my body this is a transaction this is maintenance this is the price of the mansion the job the future just a function just work just do it.
Chad’s hand settled on the back of his head, not forcing, but present. A guide. A reminder of ownership. “Yeah, just like that,” Chad grunted, his hips giving a shallow thrust.
Marcus worked, methodical, dissociating. He thought of spreadsheets. He thought of Henderson’s smug face. He thought of the cold, clean numbers in his Asset Management Protocol. This was just another column. Cost of operation.
Chad’s breathing hitched, his thighs tensing. “Gonna cum,” he warned, his voice strained.
The hot, bitter burst flooded Marcus’s mouth. The revulsion surged, acidic and overwhelming. He held still, his eyes screwed shut. As Chad pulsed, Marcus willed himself to swallow. Once. Twice. He did it seductively, a visible bob of his throat, making a soft, appreciative sound.
He pulled back, a string of saliva and cum connecting his lips to Chad’s softening dick for a second before the water broke it. He looked up, painting a look of sated hunger on his face.
Then, still on his knees, he reached for Chad with a deft hand. He used his fingers to gather the remaining spend from Chad’s skin. He brought his hand to his own chest, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he spread the mess over the curves of his large, perky tits, slicking them under the water.
He hated every second. He hated the warm, slick feel of it on his skin. He hated the performative leer Chad gave him.
But he hated to admit, in a detached, chemical-assessment part of his brain, that the taste hadn’t been as bad as he thought. It was just a biological substance. Salty. Slightly bitter. Mundane, even. That mundane realization was somehow more horrifying than the act itself.