Chapter 3: Corporate Bonding
The hangover from the housewarming clung to the loft like a cheap cologne. Brad’s vinyl surface, once a vibrant pink, felt dull and vaguely sticky in the morning light, a ghostly impression of beer and sweat and rugby player lingering in his synthetic pores. The party had been a lesson in a hell he hadn’t known to imagine. The crushing weight, the explosive, percussive flatulence, the coarse fabric of shorts grinding into him—it had all been a far cry from the soft, perfumed femininity he’d envisioned.
Now, silence.
A deep, domestic quiet broken only by the distant hum of the city below. Then, footsteps. Bare feet on polished concrete. Brad’s consciousness, a trapped spark in the void, focused.
Marcus walked into the home office, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand, his phone in the other. He was talking to someone, his voice a morning rasp. "Yeah, yeah, the data is on the server. I’ll pull it before the ten a.m." He was, as per the unbreakable rule of his remote workdays, completely naked.
ALWAYS NAKED ASS.
The sight, from Brad’s low, fixed vantage point, was a study in casual, unselfconscious power. Marcus’s body, a landscape of firm muscle from years of disciplined training, moved with a loose, proprietary ease. His ass, two defined hemispheres still bearing the faint, pink creases from sleep, was the first thing Brad saw as Marcus approached the desk. It was a blunt, athletic reality. Functional. Utterly unconcerned with being observed.
Marcus set his coffee down, leaned over the glass desk to tap at his keyboard, and for a terrifying moment, that ass hovered directly above Brad, a monolithic eclipse blocking the light from the windows. Brad braced, a psychic flinch in a body that could not move. The memory of last night’s onslaught was fresh.
But Marcus did not sit. Not yet. He straightened, sipped his coffee, and finally slid into the sleek, ergonomic chair at his desk with a soft sigh. Brad felt a flicker of confused relief. He’d been placed here, in this quiet room, as an “art piece.” Perhaps he would be ignored. A statue. A monument to his own stupid, miscalculated purgatory.
The relief lasted twenty minutes.
Marcus’s first Zoom call of the day was with a client overseas. His professional voice was calm, authoritative, a stark contrast to his state of undress. “The projections are conservative, Sarah. We’re factoring in the Q3 market shift.”
Then he shifted, rolling his shoulders. The ergonomic chair creaked. He pushed back from the desk, stood up to stretch, his naked form a pale column in the sunlight. And then, almost as an afterthought, he turned and walked the three steps to the pink chair.
ALWAYS NAKED ASS.
He didn’t so much sit as he did arrange himself. He lowered his body with the controlled motion of an athlete, his palms gripping the arms of Brad’s frame. The initial pressure was a profound, all-encompassing flattening. Brad’s world, already small, collapsed into a universe of heat and weight and skin. The warm, broad flesh of Marcus’s ass settled with a final, unforgiving permanence, molding instantly to the contours of the seat. Brad was engulfed. The waterproof vinyl stretched taut, suctioning slightly against skin still warm from the desk chair.
Marcus crossed one ankle over his knee, a pose of absolute comfort, and reopened his laptop, balancing it on his thighs. “Alright, let’s dive into the analytics dashboard,” he said into the microphone, his voice dropping into a focused murmur.
For Brad, it was an intimate invasion broadcast on a loop of meaningless corporate jargon. Every minor adjustment Marcus made—leaning forward to type, shifting a leg, settling deeper in thought—translated into a slow, grinding torture. The heat built, a moist, human warmth that the waterproof seal trapped perfectly against Brad’s surface. He could feel the precise texture of Marcus’s skin, the faint ripple of muscle as he typed, the solid density of him.
The call ended. Marcus remained seated, checking emails. He finished his coffee. An hour dissolved into the mundane rhythm of clicks and keystrokes, each one a tiny tremor through the connected flesh above.
Then, a new sensation. A faint, internal gurgle, a pressure change deep within the body he was supporting. Brad recognized it with dawning horror. Marcus uncrossed his legs, leaned slightly to one side, and released a short, dense puff of gas directly into the cradle of the seat.
It wasn’t the violent eruption of the rugby players. This was domestic. Casual. A private, bodily function executed without a second thought, the warm, confined air briefly pressing Brad’s vinyl face even tighter against its source. Marcus didn’t even pause his scrolling. He just gave a small, satisfied sigh and typed an email response.
The humiliation was absolute. It was a ownership so complete it was banal. He was furniture. A receptacle. A thing to be used and ignored.
Another Zoom call. “The creative team needs those assets by EOD, no exceptions,” Marcus stated firmly, his face a mask of professional seriousness on the screen, while below the frame, his naked ass sweat lightly onto Brad’s prison.
At one point, David popped his head in, dressed in sweatpants and a tight t-shirt that stretched over his chest. “Hey. Lunch? I’m thinking the Thai place.”
“Can’t. Back-to-backs until three,” Marcus said, glancing up with a smile. He didn’t move.
David’s eyes flicked to the pink chair, a playful grin spreading. “Comfy?”
“Weirdly, yes. This thing’s fucking great. Supportive. You should try it later.”
“Oh, I plan to,” David said, his voice a low promise. “My turn for the ‘art piece.’ I’ve got a new book to crack open. It’s gonna be a long session.” He winked and disappeared.
The words slithered into Brad’s consciousness, a new thread of dread. David. With his big, plump ass. A “long session.” The memory of David’s calm, explorative nature from the party—the way he’d watched the rugby players with amused interest—now seemed menacing.
The afternoon wore on. Marcus took call after call. He ate a sandwich at the desk, crumbs tumbling onto his own stomach and, by extension, onto Brad. The sun traversed the sky, the beam of light across the floor creeping inexorably toward them, heating the vinyl until it was almost uncomfortably warm for Marcus, who simply stood up, opened a window, and sat back down.
ALWAYS NAKED ASS.
The final call of the day was a team sync. Marcus was laughing, relaxed. “No, the client loved the pitch. We’re good to go.” As he laughed, his body shook, a seismic event of jiggling pressure that vibrated through Brad’s entire being.
When he finally logged off, the sky was turning a peachy twilight. Marcus stood in a fluid motion, his skin peeling away from the vinyl with a soft, sticky sound that echoed in the quiet room. He stretched, his back cracking, and looked down at the pink chair with genuine affection.
“Yeah,” he said to the empty room. “You’re a keeper.”
He padded out, leaving Brad in the dimming office, imprinted with the entire day’s history: the heat-map of occupation, the subtle oils of skin, the intimate, crushing weight of a normal Monday. The promise of David’s use hung in the air, a future appointment written in the lingering warmth of Marcus’s naked ass. The silence returned, but it was different now. It was the silence of anticipation, of a sentence yet to be fully served. Brad could only wait, a sentient seat in the gathering dark, forever feeling the ghost of that weight, and dawning