Chapter 48: The After-Hours Invitation
Ken stared at Marcus, the question hanging in the humid air between them. The data on the monitor continued its silent cascade. In the posture on the sofa, Leo was still spread open, waiting.
“If Masters request more than touching,” Ken said, his voice finding a flat, instructive register from somewhere deep in his gut, “as an S&F employee, you have to fulfill the request as much as possible. Within the bounds of safety and company policy. Your body’s utility is defined by their need. The objective is compliance that facilitates workflow. Your personal threshold is irrelevant. You manage the physical and psychological responses as you would manage a data overflow—by rerouting, not by shutting down.”
His peers nodded. The understanding in their eyes was not horrified; it was analytical, acquisitive. They had learnt how to be of value, like Ken, for the company. The final barrier had been verbally dismantled. It was just another operational parameter.
“Continue practicing,” Ken said.
They did. The room filled with a new, determined energy. The touches became less tentative, more exploratory. Soft instructions were exchanged. Turn over. Put your hands here. Is this angle better? It sounded like any other collaborative work session, if one ignored the context, the exposed skin, the strained breathing. Ken moved among them, adjusting a wrist, tilting a hip, his corrections clinical. His own arousal, ignored, began to soften slightly, retreating into a dull, constant ache—a background process running on low power.
When the clock on the wall finally clicked to 6 PM, a collective, shuddering exhale seemed to move through the room. Bodies untangled. They stood on unsteady legs, the elastic of their G-strings digging red lines into their hips. Without a word, they walked to the lockers, and Ken followed.
He opened his own small locker. His folded clothes—a simple grey t-shirt, jeans, boxer briefs—sat neatly on the shelf. The fabric felt alien in his hands, heavy with texture and implication. He pulled on the briefs, the cotton a startling sheath around his spent flesh. The jeans were stiff, constricting his legs after hours of enforced openness. The t-shirt fell over his shoulders, a weightless shroud that somehow felt like a monumental weight. Dressed, he was a ghost in his own life, camouflaged in the costume of a person who had choices.
He left without looking back at the others, taking the back stairwell to avoid the main atrium. The evening air in the parking garage was cool and smelled of concrete and exhaust. He walked quickly, the tap of his shoes echoing, heading for the sidewalk and the bus stop two blocks away.
The monolithic glass facade of Fah Rung headquarters loomed, throwing long, distorted shadows in the dusk. The neon signage flickered on, casting a pulsating red glow over the polished plaza.
“Ken! Hey, over here!”
The voice was cheerful, familiar. Ken’s body reacted before his mind could, muscles tensing for the kneel, his spine automatically beginning to curve. He turned and saw Pete leaning against the side of a sleek, electric-blue coupe parked at the curb. He was out of his suit jacket, sleeves of his violet shirt rolled up, red glasses reflecting the city lights.
Just as Ken’s knee began to buckle toward the pavement, Pete pushed off the car and took two quick steps forward, grabbing Ken’s elbow.
“Whoa, none of that,” Pete laughed, his grip firm but friendly. “It’s out of working time and outside the company grounds. No protocols. Just us.” He released Ken’s arm and smiled, a warm, genuine expression that reached his eyes. “I want you to talk casually to me. No ‘Master’. Just Pete. Okay?”
Ken straightened up, a wave of disorientation making the street tilt slightly. The mental shift was jarring, like trying to switch languages mid-sentence. The weight of the afternoon—the tutoring, the touching, the cold instruction—was still a physical pressure in his chest.
“I… okay,” Ken managed.
“Great!” Pete said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m starving. You eaten? There’s this new izakaya a few blocks from here. Their chicken karaage is supposed to be life-changing. My treat.”
Dinner. An invitation. Ken hesitated. His mind was a fractured replay of the day: Marcus’s question, Leo’s hand on him, the feel of the conference table against his palms. He looked at Pete’s face, at the open, expectant smile that held no trace of the calculating executive from the meeting room. This was the Pete from university, the eager tutee who’d always looked at him with unabashed admiration.
“Yeah,” Ken heard himself say. “Okay. That sounds good.”
“Excellent!” Pete beamed. “Come on, my car’s right here. We’ll drive.”
As they walked the few steps to the passenger side, Ken felt a strange lightness seeping into his limbs. It was the absence of a command where one had been conditioned to exist. The evening air was cool on his face, a clean contrast to the sterile, recycled atmosphere of the office. He slid into the leather seat, the scent of Pete’s citrus cologne faint in the enclosed space.
Pete started the car, the engine purring to life. “So,” he said, glancing over as he pulled into the evening traffic. “What do you even do for fun these days? I realize I only ever see you in… well, in work mode.”
The question was so ordinary it felt profound. Ken stared at the passing storefronts, their lights streaking by. Fun? His life had become a single, narrow corridor of routine, shame, and paradoxical pride.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, the truth startling him. “I used to read. Technical journals, mostly. Some sci-fi.”
“Still a brainiac,” Pete chuckled. “Favorite food? And don’t say ‘whatever is provided’.”
A weak laugh escaped Ken. “That… was my next answer.”
“See? Work mode.” Pete nudged him with an elbow. “Come on. Think. Pizza? Sushi? Disgusting durian?”
“Ramen,” Ken said suddenly, the memory vivid. “There was this place near campus. The broth was tonkotsu, like liquid silk. They charred the chashu perfectly.”
“Yes!” Pete said, triumphant. “A real answer. We’ll find a ramen place next time. Tonight, it’s karaage and highballs.”
They drove. Pete talked about a concert he’d seen, a disastrous golf lesson, an old professor they’d both had who’d retired to raise orchids. Ken found himself listening, then answering. Words began to tumble out—a comment on the city’s new bike lanes, a half-remembered plot from a book he’d read years ago. It was stilted at first, then easier. The tight coil of tension in his shoulders began, incrementally, to unwind.
For a moment, with the city lights blurring outside the window and Pete humming along to the radio, Ken was just a man in a car, having dinner with an old friend. The relief was so acute it felt like pain.
The relief was so acute it felt like pain. The izakaya was a warm cave of walnut wood and sizzling grease, the air thick with the smell of soy sauce and grilled chicken. Pete guided them to a corner booth, ordered a bottle of cold sake and an array of small plates with confident ease, and launched into a story about a failed hiking trip. Ken listened, sipping his sake, the alcohol warm in his chest.
He felt a little bit relieved. Pete was just Pete here, his gestures animated, his laugh loud and unguarded, the cute tutee admiring his former tutor. Yet beneath the table, Ken’s knees pressed together tightly, a phantom memory of the afternoon’s exposure tightening his skin. He felt really ashamed, a hot, creeping sensation up his neck, as he remembered being completely naked and letting Pete examined and touched every parts of himself throughout the week. The memory of being fingered at his hole in front of all of his peers in S&F department played behind his eyes, synced with the click of Pete’s chopsticks.
His cheeks flushed red. Pete noticed, his story trailing off. He tilted his head, a playful smile on his lips. “You’re blushing,” he said. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “A shocking question, Ken. Do you feel shy being naked in front of me? Even after all this time?”
Ken’s flush deepened, burning the tips of his ears. He stared at a plate of glistening edamame. “I…”
Pete chuckled, cheerful and light. “I’d never thought you’d be an S&F employee in my father’s company,” he mused, popping a grilled chicken heart into his mouth. “And I never thought I’d be called ‘Master’ by you. That’s still so weird to hear.” He took a sip of sake, his eyes bright over the rim of the cup. “Also, I’d never thought I would see and touch you while you were completely naked. Life is full of surprises, huh?”
Ken flushed red more, the heat becoming a prickling sweat under his clothes. “I couldn’t resist anything,” he muttered, the words tasting like ash. “Otherwise I would be immediately punished. The rules are…”
“I know that rule,” Pete laughed, waving his hand as if swatting a fly. “Of course I know it. I helped write some of them.” He refilled Ken’s cup, his tone softening into something wistful. “But you know, you’re really cute when your whole body from head to toe turns red while naked in front of me in that kneeling position. It’s very… honest.”
Ken gripped his cup. “That was my most embarrassed position,” he confessed, the sake loosening his tongue. “For me to be like that in front of someone I knew before entering this company. It’s different from the others. It feels…”
He couldn’t finish. Pete didn’t press. Instead, he smoothly changed the subject to the terrible football team they’d both supported in university, then to a debate about the best programming languages for legacy systems. Pete continued talking with Ken more, his energy familiar and grounding. Ken felt more comfortable, the sharp edges of his shame gradually blunting as their conversation turned into a common one like both used to talk when they were in university. He even managed a real laugh at Pete’s impression of their notoriously dull statistics professor.
Shockingly, once they realized, the time was already late. The waitstaff was cleaning nearby tables. Ken pulled out his phone and his stomach dropped. The last subway to his apartment already passed, over twenty minutes ago.
“Shit,” he whispered.
“No problem!” Pete said, already pulling out his wallet. “My treat, remember? I’ll drive you. It’s on my way.” He paid the bill with a black card, ushering Ken back out into the cool night.
In the car, Pete tapped his navigation screen. The route to Ken’s apartment glowed blue. Then a series of angry red alerts flashed across the display. “Huh,” Pete murmured. “There’s a mess.”
However, once they checked the route in detail, they found that there was an accident happened along the way. A multi-vehicle pileup. The police had to block the path for safety, diverting all traffic in a massive snarl that would take hours to clear.
Ken felt worried, a cold knot of anxiety replacing the sake’s warmth. He didn’t have any other ways to go back. Taxis would be impossible, and the detour routes were kilometres long.
Pete drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. Then he brightened. “I’ve got it. I’ll invite you to my home for a night instead. It’s literally a ten-minute drive from here. You can take the guest room, no trouble at all.”
The offer was a lifeline. Ken began to nod, a ‘thank you’ forming on his lips.
“But,” Pete said, his tone shifting into something more deliberate. “My father is there as well. He came back from a trip today. And he’s quite strict to the rule, you know? The company ethos. Home is an extension of the workplace for him.” He looked at Ken, his expression apologetic but firm. “So, if you come to my house, you have to do everything like being at the company. I.e., completely naked, kneeling position, use honorific, ‘Master’, hard cock. The full protocol. From the moment you step inside until you leave for work tomorrow. It’s non-negotiable with him around.”
The words landed like physical blows. Ken looked at Pete’s face, at the friendly concern that didn’t quite mask the unwavering certainty beneath. He thought of the cold streets, the impossible distance home, the police lights flashing silently on the navigation screen. He didn’t have any other option.
He nodded, a short, stiff motion.
Pete smiled happily. “Great! It’ll be fine, you’ll see.” He picked up his phone. “I’ll call my father about this, let him know we have a guest from S&F.”
Pete left the car for the private call, stepping out onto the sidewalk. Ken watched him through the window, phone pressed to his ear, gesturing amiably. Inside the silent car, Ken looked down at his own body, at the jeans and t-shirt that had offered a few hours of fragile anonymity. He nervously murmured to himself, his voice a hollow whisper in the dark cabin.
“I have to be naked again,” he said to his trembling hands. “And this time at my own tutee’s house. In front of all people in Pete’s house. Not at the company.”
The engine started. Pete slid back in, his smile widening. “All set! He’s looking forward to seeing you. Says he’s heard a lot about my ‘exceptional tutor’.” He put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb, the city lights blurring into streaks. The short journey passed in a silence filled with the low hum of the motor and the frantic beat of Ken’s heart. They soon turned into a quiet, tree-lined street of imposing modern homes, stopping before a gated driveway of a minimalist concrete-and-glass structure.
The gate swung open silently. Pete parked in a vast, empty garage. The air here was still and cool, smelling of epoxy and money.
“Here we are,” Pete said, unbuckling his seatbelt. His demeanour had changed, subtly but irrevocably. The cheerful friend was receding, replaced by a calm, expectant authority. He turned to Ken. “You remember the procedure. All clothing and personal effects remain in the car. You will enter and present yourself. My father is in the main living area.”
Ken’s fingers were numb. He fumbled with the seatbelt clasp. He pulled his t-shirt over his head, the fabric catching briefly on his chin. He shoved down his jeans and briefs in one clumsy movement, kicking them off his ankles onto the car floor. The garage air was cold on his bare skin, raising instant goosebumps. His cock, soft and shrunken from dread, lay against his thigh.
Pete was already out of the car, watching, waiting by a heavy interior door. “Ken,” he said, his voice gentle but leaving no room. “You need to be ready.”
Ken closed his eyes. He focused on the permission, the relief of having no choices left, just as he’d taught the others. He let the thought fill his gut. He let it heat his blood. It was a simple chemical chain reaction. He felt a traitorous twitch in his groin, a sluggish pull of blood. He opened his eyes, stepped out onto the cold concrete floor, and walked toward the door. With each step, he felt himself hardening, his body obeying the directive even as his mind screamed. By the time he reached Pete, he was fully, painfully erect, his cock jutting out from his body, the head already damp.
Pete’s gaze swept over him, noting the compliance. He gave a small, approving nod. Then he opened the door.
Warm, amber light and the low sound of a classical piano piece spilled out. The entrance hall was a vast space of pale stone and soaring ceiling. Ahead, through an open doorway, Ken could see a sunken living room. A man with steel-grey hair, wearing a deep blue silk robe, sat in a tall armchair, reading a tablet. Pete’s father. The Grand CEO.
Ken walked forward, his bare feet silent on the stone. He entered the living room. The man looked up.
Ken moved to the center of the open floor, the plush rug soft under his knees. He assumed the position. Knees wide, hands laced behind his head, back straight, chest out, his hard cock standing upright in the open air. He took a steadying breath that did nothing to steady him.
“Master,” he said, his voice clear but strained in the quiet room. “Master Kenjiro. Ken is ready for service.”