Free Samples

Griffin Yearwood has been trying to get on his supervisor's good side since they met. After a crucial mistake at a conference, Griffin gets to know his boss, Marco Marchesi, very well through a series of mishaps and ill-timed "meetings."

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(Here's another story from the vault. It's a long one, but a one-shot! Per usual, mind the tags. Happy reading!)

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It wasn't like I'd set out to make much of an impression at work. Truthfully, I was set on surviving in my undergraduate field until my cousin's music popped off, and I figured I'd become his creative director.

Many years later, and I'm getting called "baby faced" by my older female coworkers at this office job. At 28.

"Better that office job than prison," Al always says. He's been to jail, not prison, but I'll just take his word for it. I was a bit of a silent troublemaker when I was younger, but as soon as I moved for high school, I discovered my inner nerd and the internet, and all my anxious energy was directed elsewhere. When I went to college, I went real corporate real fast.

Al says he was scared I'd act up again, and there was no way I would survive prison, looking the way I do. I tried not to read into that, but I knew I wasn't immune to looks from people of all types, men and women. No matter; dating was the last thing on my mind, and the more I look at the world around me, I'm not gunning to start a family soon.

I just like fucking around. Haven't had a serious girlfriend since senior year of college. Haven't wanted to mess around enough to possibly end up a baby father. Every once in a while, I crave something that will shake up my world a little. Sitting at my desk has been driving me a little nuts.

Truthfully, after the company was bought out last year, I thought I'd be fired, and that'd give me an excuse to get creative again, but no such luck. My cousin keeps calling me a corporate sellout. He's kind of right. Shit's comfortable.

I know what he means. It's a good job, good pay. Just not the "chasing dreams" kind of job. No cool graphics, chrome, fancy fonts like my earlier pursuits in design. My portfolio is full of Arial, Calibri, and tables. Even my most "impressive" work here is boring. Sometimes I wish I was still working on my art in Al's basement. I'm the only black guy here. Sometimes I feel invisible.

Being said, getting in good with our new boss isn't a bad idea. He's rumored to be picking people to be on a closer working team, and the pay seems even bigger. Money isn't everything, but it's great to have.

Too bad I've made a decent, though forgettable, impression on everyone besides Mr. Marchesi.

It's one of those things; wrong place, wrong time situations that keep happening over and over again. I'm opening a door too fast and I slam it into his toe. Or spilling coffee all over him. Accidentally throwing out a set of important papers that were put in the wrong place. Ordering a special laptop and sending it to the wrong state. Things like this keep piling up.

I must look completely incompetent to him. It's like I'm only making these dumb mistakes when he's nearby.

He managed to spook us all when he arrived, monotonously announcing that he intended to change daily operations as soon as possible, and we would be learning entirely new systems. The first week was rough, as he didn't seem to talk to anyone, until our liaison, Josh, broke all the tension by forcing a friendship on the guy.

We figured if Josh Lancaster, famous idiot, could get along with Marchesi, then any of us could.

Foolishly, I figured this, too. But my damn nerves take over every time. Even our first interaction wasn't too smooth. He'd stuck out his right hand, and I stuck out my left. As if I'd never given a handshake.

"Griffin Yearwood, Sir. Nice to meet you. I handle the budget and order supplies whenever you guys need."

"Marco Marchesi. Nice to meet you," he'd said plainly.

"Oh, your parents must be funny," I'd said with a laugh. "Marco Marchesi... Marc Marc. Heh."

He didn't find it funny.

"Good thing it's not Marco Polo?" I foolishly tried again.

"My last name was Palmero. My dad died. My Ma got remarried. I'm Marchesi now. It's hilarious, I know."

Gut punch.

"Thanks, Griffin. I'll let you know if I need anything." He didn't seem too interested. I couldn't blame him for dismissing himself.

Ever since then, all the random work mishaps that anyone could have started happening, and I was playing catch-up on building any kind of rapport with the man I had to pass by every day on my way to my cubicle.

"Griffin?" He'd called one day.

"Yes, Sir?"

"What is... 'Bullshit Art from Highschool' that you sent last night?" Mr. Marchesi gently thumbed at his computer. Immediately, my eyes went wide. Before I knew it, I was caught in a loop of breathing in to say something, then nothing coming out. He put his hand up. "I'm sure it's just a mix-up. You were supposed to send updates on supplier stuff, right?"

"Yes... Sir..." I said solemnly, feeling my shoulders slink. Immediately, the badly drawn half-naked girls and overzealous cars I crafted years ago came flooding into my mind, and the thought of my boss clicking through those oversaturated images made my skin crawl. "You didn't look through--"

"Not bad art for a teenager. I'm sure you've improved since," he said bleakly, turning back to his computer. "Mind closing my door behind you?"

I did, and along with it, I closed my opportunity to ever have my boss think of me as a respectable person. I sent him the right file immediately after.

From then on, I've been spending every day wondering exactly what kind of strange interaction I'd have with him next. I share everything with Cleo, who can't help but laugh at every mishap. She says it's a curse at my desk. She's considering making a bingo card for my interactions with Marchesi.

Otherwise, my job is a breeze. I even hang out with people at work on the rare occasion.

Lately, it wasn't so much keeping my head down, so much as it was trying not to put my head anywhere near Mr. Marchesi and his 'no-bullshit' demeanor. My head was clever, except for when it comes to him.

Today, I've managed to make it almost the whole day without embarrassing myself in some way around him, and I figure I'll even treat myself if I manage to make it til 5:30 without saying or doing something stupid.

Cleo decides to cash in on a favor, and I've decided to take up her tasks for the rest of the day. Honestly, this is one of at least ten favors I owe, so I'm not complaining to do any tasks, until I see the last one.

-marchesi - 1 sandwich w pork, egg, onion, sharp cheddar, iceberg, tomato, spicy ranch; lrg sweet tea

It feels like a setup.

I know the sandwich shop, and nearly shake as I read the sandwich composition slowly, as to not leave out a thing.

It's a half-hour until the end of my shift, and Marchesi seems to be settling into some more work. He'll be here late again. He must want to eat before the long night. Proudly, I clear my throat, and walk up to his door, knocking gently. "H-hi, Mr. Marchesi. Cleo had to head out, so I brought your sandwich."

He looks up from his files, and he nods, waving me over. "Thanks, Griffin."

"You're welcome, Sir. Wish I could eat that kind of stuff. Watching my salt intake," I say jokingly. "Smells great."

He nods to himself tightly. "Surely the guy twenty years your senior has a better metabolism."

Shit. Again. Unintentionally insulting him.

I remember it was his birthday recently, maybe a month ago. He's likely only 42-ish, and he looks in his mid to late 30s. He must think I'm way younger than I am, at 28. It's the baby face.

"You hardly look older than me," I try again. "Well, I mean, you look like you could run me over, so. Older, younger, who cares. We're all humans." Ohhh what the fuck?! My nonsensical babbling has even him blushing in embarrassment for me, and he has to look away. "Sandwich smells good. I can smell it from here."

He briefly sniffs the brown paper bag, and he nods contentedly. "This helps a lot. Hey.. uh... I had a question. You may have a seat."

"Yes?" I piped up, eagerly taking the seat in front of his desk.

He sighs, deep and heavy, as if he's been dreading every moment of this interaction. "You... type quickly."

"Thank you, Sir."

He puts his hand up. "I mean that's what it says on your resume. Is this actually true?"

I nod. "Yes, Sir." Lie. I still look at my hands.

Clearly, he's on eggshells, and I lean back in my seat, crossing my arms. This doesn't seem to lessen the tension.

"There is... a large meeting. A big conference, two days long, one day to brief. Three days total. My usual travel associates are occupied with other projects. But it's necessary to take thorough notes. Are you up to the task?"

I couldn't believe it. I wondered briefly how far down the list I was as an option, but quickly dismissed it. Perhaps this was his way of building rapport.

"Yes. Yes I c-can do this. I'll cancel my weekend plans."

He seems to brighten. "That's unnecessary. If you have plans I wouldn't want to--"

"I'll cancel them!" I say quickly, grabbing my phone and texting friends. I won't miss this opportunity for anything. I text my friends that I won't be there for the planned bar-hopping, and am typing away until I hear Marchesi clear his throat. I shoot up from my seat. "Sorry, sir."

"You may leave now," he says, not very subtle. I was lingering after all. I quickly head toward the door, and just as I'm about to head out, I seem to remember as soon as he says it.

"Where's my sweet tea?" he asks aloud, but then he looks at me again, and shakes his head, as if he shouldn't have even asked. "Nevermi--it's alright. Thank you." I speed out of his office, shaking my head as I swiftly pace down the hallway.

Of course. I can't have one day.

-------

I'm so worried about messing up that I pop into the office an entire hour early, having ridden my bike, and the security won't let anyone in for another thirty minutes. I stand in between the hall and the doorway, with no chairs to sit in. It's too cold outside to stand and wait, or sit in my crappy car.

Finally, I see an Escalade pull up, and Mr. Marchesi is in the back seat. I stand in the window, waiting for him to come inside, when I get a message from our work app.

Mr. Marchesi: Please come to the car so we can go.

I facepalm, remembering that we're traveling to a conference.

I hop into the back with him as we take on the three hour ride. "Got everything?"

"Yes, sir."

He pauses, and then his look gets serious. "Are you sure?"

I gulp, running over the checklist I ran over in my head a million times. "Yes. I am entirely sure."

------

"We only have one room booked under 'Marchesi.'" The woman says with a nod. "Sorry."

"My last name is 'Yearwood.' There must be a mistake."

"Oh, no. There is no 'Yearwood.' Bookings actually end at the letter V this weekend. I'm sorry." She doesn't actually seem sorry.

At least this one isn't my fault. "Sir--"

"There isn't an empty room? At all?"

"No," she says. "Not until Sunday evening. This entire hotel is partially the conference for the weekend."

Mr. Marchesi seems frozen, debating what to do, before he holds out his hand for the key. She hands it to him, and he shakes his head, trudging toward the elevator. I follow swiftly after him.

"I'll find a room to--"

"You'll stay in mine," he interrupts. "No time for fodder. Where's the first open discussion board?"

I check my notes. "Room 103. All the way downstairs."

"We're staying in room 1324. Waiting for the elevators will be a nightmare, especially on the first-come-first-serve thing," he clicks his tongue. "Sometimes they'll do some random pop-up meetings and people come flooding the halls. Be ready to run down thirteen flights of stairs if we have to."

Nodding, I take everything in. This essentially was a free-for-all, make-your-connections bonanza. I'm sure there'll be times when I'm wandering around alone, and if I find anyone who's looking to hire an artist, then I'm in the bag. With my updated portfolio, of course.

"... Griffin."

"Yes, Sir?!" I snap out of my daydreaming, and stand up straight. "Sorry."

"I'm counting on you to do more than notes, here. Pick up on leads, overhearing conversations, these are all important for our next quarter. A two-in-one survey for consumers and producers here."

"Got it," I reassure him.

With that, the day goes off without a hitch. I'm almost shocked. We make it to every meeting on time, my notes are precise, and I even manage to shake my nerves for a few jokes. By the time we eat and dash to the next meeting, I'm not sure if I'm imagining the impressed look on Marchesi's face, or if he's equally surprised at the smoothness of Day One.

Either way, as we finally make it to the room at 10pm, I'm exhausted. Josh invited us out for drinks with his branch, but Mr. Marchesi declined. I declined in turn, even though I wouldn't have minded going out for a bit. I wouldn't dare drink enough for Marchesi to know I was off my game.

No matter. I wash my face in the mirror, drying the tightening curls of black hair bouncing about my head. Mr. Marchesi is sitting on the corner of his bed, tapping away on his laptop. I wonder if I forgot anything for the day.

Silently, I do my nightly routine, trying not to be too loud or get on his nerves. By the time I'm tying a durag on my head, I'm falling asleep sitting up.

Marchesi turns on a tiny lamp, and I take it as my cue to get a good night's rest.

The next day, I wake up to the bustling of the hotel, and decide to get an early start on my organizing. I'm pretty sure Mr. Marchesi barely got any sleep, given that he has papers on the pillow beside him, and a pen behind his ear. Is this how he is at home, too? Working on projects well into the night?

No wonder he's so serious all the time. I decide to say the first word, wondering if my curse is broken since yesterday went off without a hitch. "Good morning."

"Morning, Griffin."

"Morning," I say again, and I want to pinch myself for my repetitiveness, but I decide to cruise by it. "I summarized yesterday's morning and afternoon. Investments are in the shared file and I sent the password."

"Thank you. I have an updated schedule." He hands me a paper, and I wonder where he printed it off from, given the timestamp of 4:37am. Geez. This guy likes to work. I mean, I figured he was good at his job, but still. "Ready for some more walking and talking?"

"Yes, Sir," I say affirmatively. I almost want to salute, but I figure that's too much, even as a slight joke.

Marchesi gathers his things quickly, and he's in the shower and out before I've even gotten dressed. He smells like a strong soap. Something that works fast and gets the job done. I glance at him as he takes out his fine tooth comb, hilling his full head of dark brown hair over at an angle. He's barely got grays, and it could be mistaken for the lighting if you even spot them. He gently shaves off a few chin hairs with a cheap razor, and tosses it in the trash.

After brushing his teeth, he turns to me with a huff. "Alright. Let's go."

"Roger that."

We're off to a busy morning. It starts with a conference hall meeting, with a few guys cracking jokes and telling us when and where the food will be, just like yesterday. Like usual, Marchesi is uninterested, checking his emails and texting away in our work app.

After a presentation about where to meet investors, aka people like me and Marchesi, the day is going strong.

"All the food people are here today," Mr. Marchesi says, turning toward me. He shows me his phone. "They're on the schedule. We're gonna do some fru-fru nature stuff. Granola places, boba shops, vegan-everytings, so on and so forth."

"Do we have to eat it?" I ask with a frown.

"Hell no," Marchesi says, recoiling in his seat. I can't help but chuckle.

"What if they give me special powers?" I ask, and Marchesi gives me a "really" look. "Sorry."

"Don't be shy with the judgement. If they look weird, it's a no. If they act funny, it's a no. If they seem all desperate, cut 'em. I'm trusting you, here. We've got ground to cover." Mr. Marchesi holds out his hand. "Gimme your phone."

I scramble to pull my phone from my pocket, and hand it to him without thinking. My background is a scantily-clad comic book villain with her thumb in her mouth. My curse isn't over, it seems. He cringes, but I watch him go into my contacts, and he adds himself. "Alright. At 12:40 go get lunch. I wrote that down, too."

"Got it, Sir," I nod.

"Split up from here. I've got places to be." With that, he looks at his phone, and heads toward the elevator.

My list is small, just 6 booths. I've seen Mr. Marchesi interact with these startups before, and decide to act the way he would.

I'm done with my assignments, and by the time I check my watch, it's 12:53. "Ah, shit!" I shake myself off, looking over my notes to make sure I didn't forget anything, and quickly look around for Mr. Marchesi before dashing off downtown. He's made it clear he doesn't prefer the conference food, so my thirteen minute delay could mean the difference between making or missing a meeting. I try not to panic, picking up the pace and nearly jogging to pick up his sandwich. To my surprise, in the lunch hour, his sandwich is ready to go within a few minutes, and I thank the high heavens for the universe making up my time for me. As I head back, I spot a stand outside, clearly taking advantage of the conference. Cupcakes. I know Mr. Marchesi has a thing for chocolate and peanut butter, given the ice cream containers that are always in his trash. I decide to grab him one, and walk along a few other stands, picking up free samples.

"These are the best cupcakes you'll ever have!"

"You'll never try a green tea like this!"

"These are the strongest on the market."

I chuckle. "Strongest mints on the market?"

"No. Only take one. Any more than that is overkill," the girl says, smacking her gum. "I'm serious. It's even on the package."

"Only take one, ha." I can smell the menthol from my hand before I've opened them.

By the time I'm back, I almost feel his presence before I even walk in the door. Right as I step in, he turns around, and we make eye contact. I'm late. As I rush over, Marchesi taps his watch.

"I'm so sorry--"

"Next meeting was moved down by the CO. You got lucky." He eyes the bags in my hands. "What's all this?"

"F-free samples, mostly. Cupcakes, mints, tea, and some granola crap."

"Good work," he says, and he starts walking to the open hall. I can't tell if he's being sarcastic. Either way, with a skip, I'm following right behind him.

We find a tall table, standing up to eat as various people approach Marchesi, and he gets annoyed as he tries to eat his sandwich, but it's not like these corporate boneheads notice, or care. Every so often, he turns to me, grumbling a "these guys are running on air" or "can't let a man finish his sandwich" or something else that makes me want to chuckle, but I've given up on trying to joke with him.

"What's the scoop on that bike guy?" he asks. I don't even have to look at my notes.

"Bike is too lightweight, seems dangerous. He couldn't answer some questions about test runs on downhill slopes," I say, shaking my head. Marchesi seems impressed.

"Yeah, no way on that. Looked cool in the email, though," Marchesi finishes his food, and wipes his mouth. "That for me?" he asks, pointing to the cupcake. I nod. "Is it gluten-free or somethin'?"

"Not that I know of," I shrug. He takes a bite, and the satisfaction on his face, the subtle twitch of his lip, and the way he stares at the chocolate almost has me beaming. Over my boss enjoying a cupcake.

Clearly, corporate life has shaped me a lot.

"Tomorrow's gonna be different than everything. People say they're gonna go over notes and review, but we'll be talking to anyone and everyone. We'll barely be in the room or the building at all, so you'll need to have everything ready."

"Yes, sir."

He looks at the rest of the stuff. "Tea and granola look trash." He grabs the tin of mints with the big green foreign writing. "Tobacco?"

"Mints. She said they're powerful so only take one."

Marchesi rolls his eyes, popping two into his mouth. I do the same. The menthol is pretty overwhelming, kind of a good burning that comes with Listerine, and I almost wish I took her advice.

"We've got two quickies before the big meeting and then that whole OTech thing," Marchesi says. "Ready?"

"Yes, Sir."

He pauses, and gives me a look that I can't quite place. "You're keeping up, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," I repeat, tapping my clipboard and my notebook.

"Good kid," he says with a nod, and I know I'm beaming again.

Our meeting is more intense than I anticipated, though I knew the budget-cut-speculation chat was going to be full of different types of attitudes. It's the most I've seen Marchesi talk, and it's mostly to argue numbers he crunched himself.

The room is hot, though, and I can't help but take my coat off. Marchesi does too, and three-fourths of the way through, he's gone quiet, taking shorthanded notes and looking on his phone. I wipe sweat from my forehead, and he does the same.

"Geez, this heat," I comment offhandedly as some people talk in front of the room. Marchesi nods.

"Nauseating," he says. He tugs his tie away from his neck, and he stares off into nothing for a moment, completely zoning out. I observe the flush on his cheeks and nose, and his neck. I look at the palms of my hands, equally blushed. Marchesi's eyes narrow. "What was in that cupcake?"

"P-Peanut butter and chocolate--"

"Kidding," Marchesi says, but then he frowns, as if he's thinking about it more. "Caffeine?"

The meeting ends, and we stay sitting. Marchesi does, at least, and I follow suit. "I need a second," he says, shaking his head. He closes his eyes, gulping down some water and rubbing at his temples. "I was kidding 'bout the cupcake, but now I want to know. I'm feeling... almost high."

It's like the moment he says it, I finally take a look around, my own heartbeat picking up. My eyes can't seem to take in everything fully, as if my senses are overwhelmed. "I didn't have a cupcake."

His steely eyes cut over to me again. "What? You feeling something?" Marchesi asks hurriedly.

I nod. "There's streamers by the vents. Air is on. Everyone else seems fine," I observe.

"But you're not..." Marchesi shakes his head. "I... am feeling beyond strange. I'm not allergic to anything."

I watch people leave the conference room one by one, and reach down for my bag, suddenly brushing up against an unexpectedly half-hard erection in my own pants. Brushing up against myself didn't help, because it's like I activated something, waking the rest of my dick up and standing to attention. How fucking embarrassing. I sit up straight, wide-eyed.

"I'll step outside for a bit. It's cool out today. You could join?" I offer, stacking up my papers and putting them into two folders. How embarrassing. I don't know why I'm rock solid right now. I don't think I was getting in the zone enough to pop a hard-on because of it.

"Go out the opposite way, toward the balcony."

"Roger," I nod, ready to make my move. Despite his instruction, Marchesi heads away first, and I pop up to follow behind. I hold my bag and my jacket in front of my slight bulge, and decide to ignore it. It's getting harder by the second, though, as if my brain won't allow me to think about anything else. Is it because he's around? Probably. He makes me nervous. My body would betray me like this in front of my boss for no reason. I've ignored plenty erections before.

As soon as we're out to the balcony, Marchesi takes a deep breath. He stands against the short wall, looking out into the city. "I need a moment."

Is he feeling sick? The breeze feels almost too good to me now, and I wonder how he isn't relishing this feeling. I'm almost getting goosebumps from this breeze. I should go outside more. I damn near want to close my eyes to take it in--

"Griffin," he says. I stand at attention. Marchesi shakes his head. "What did we eat?"

Maybe he is feeling sick. I go through the list, the only shared items being the mints. "I... think... the mints..."

"Show me that package now," he demands, sticking his hand out.

That's when I start putting the pieces together.

"The... the..." my heartbeat speeds up as I scramble to get the mints out of the bag, and Marchesi has his phone out, using his translator camera to see what it says. Then he hands his phone to me, as if he can't bear to learn the truth.

"'Men's product and health, men's mints...'" As I mumble the bad translation, Marchesi clenches his jaw. I've spotted the red flags too late. My hand begins to shake as I keep reading. "'Male sexual longevity and enhancement medication. Take one only within 48 hour period. Intake product one hour before presumed sexual experience for optimal performance.'"

As if that isn't bad enough, Marchesi eggs me to keep reading. "'K04BOH! Is th-the most powerful more powerful than competing brands. Tested for certifiable potency. Most powerful erection on market.'" The bad translation makes it worse.

Marchesi snatches his bag, beelining toward one of the small conference rooms, and I run after him. He barely lets me inside before he closes the door.

My racing heart does no favors for my now throbbing dick, and I think I realize why Marchesi put the pieces together before I did. I can't help but look, and multiple times. His dick imprints his pants too noticeably. My first thought is that he should be more responsible with a machine like that, but I'm guessing he's not getting hard at conference meetings often enough to consider precautions.

After minutes of silence, despite my instinct, I decide to speak. "I'm sorry--"

"Just to reiterate... you just gave me the most powerful aphrodisiac on the current market."

"Technically, w-we don't know? But... I thought it was a mint. And I had one, too."

He pinches between his eyebrows. "We each had two. I'm sweating through my suit, Griffin."

My professionalism is fading as I verge on a panic attack. "You're firing me. You hate me? I'm sorry. I wanna die." I open the window, taking a deep breath. "I'm so horny."

"This is not good." Mr. Marchesi tugs at his collared shirt, and he briefly looks down, and he fully facepalms. At the bulge in his pants, I understand the predicament. "Is it like Viagra?"

"I've never taken Viagra."

"Neither have I," Marchesi says, and he glares. "I've never had to. Never crossed my fuckin' mind. Don't need it. Probably dangerous for me, honestly."

He's hammering the point that he has no difficulty getting hard, but all I can think about is how we're both two horny men stuck in an offshoot meeting room together. Ridiculously horny. The sweaty and blushing and sensitive-to-the-touch kind of horny. My brain fog is preventing me from coherence, and I've had my head stuck out the window for the last minute, my body trying to process the overwhelming endorphins and serotonin. I feel like I have a fever at this point.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Marchesi," I breathe, running my hands through damp-rooted curls. "I messed up. I'll never do this again."

"I don't see how this could happen twice. It'd be fucking impressive," he grumbles, tugging his tie, and then pulling it off. "Fucking hot in here!" At his cussing, I jump, and feel myself shrink even more.

"I know, I know." I foolishly try to wave the cooler air from the window into the room, and the look Marchesi gives me is too defeated. "On the bright side, we made a good impression?"

"Griffin, stop talking, please."

"Yes, Sir."

I can't believe that girl did this to me. And how many other men? She's right outside the conference, pretending to give busy, crazy white-collared men some breath mints. We should warn someone.

"Is there a fan?" Marchesi breathes. Once he takes off his suit jacket, I know this is worse than it seems. "Don't answer that. Just sit down. You're being frantic and it's making my position worse."

Lips zipped, I sit on the chair by the window, fanning myself and trying not to let my mind spiral into the depths of arousal that my body is forcing upon it.

For a while we both just sit in our chairs, panting and trying to get a grip. My mind is caught between coming up with a plan, and the intense desire to yank my pants down and jerk off, so leaving it blank might be my best option. Focusing on my breathing, trying not to sweat out the fucking bright orange shirt I'm wearing... focus... focus...

"You have to go. I can't show my face in there like this," Marchesi says.

"B-by myself?!" I feel myself break out in even more of a sweat. "I can't. I believe in myself as much as you believe in me."

"Not very much."

"Not very much," I repeat, shaking my head. "Maybe we'll say we have food poisoning?"

"And attend the meeting anyway?"

"You have to meet OTech's management, though. We even have the pitch for his entire photography and nature issue. He's only gonna be here today," I say softly, tapping my foot. "Only until five o'clock--"

There's a knock at the door, and then the door swings open quickly, and it's shut with a lock. Mr. Marchesi and I stare at each other stupidly frozen, before he yanks his suit jacket back on. "Hello?"

"Hey... it's Lancaster!" a few footsteps later, and Josh comes into the room, carrying rubber gloves, cleaning spray, and rags. "You guys alright? I happened to catch you dashing away. My colleague got food poisoning from somethin' she ate yesterday. She totally yakked everywhere, and I figured you might've had the same problem."

Marchesi's mouth opens and closes like a fish, and I step in given his sudden buffer. "We haven't thrown up yet." I'm glad my initial thought might pan out, because I don't have another plan.

"Well you should! We should find a bathroom--"

"Thanks, Lancaster," Mr. Marchesi says, and he leans forward to hide his getting-more-obvious erection. I suppose this is where not being horse-hung comes in handy. Or maybe my underwear are too tight. "You can leave those supplies here."

"Can I get you some water? Antacids? I-I don't know--" Josh shrugs, mindblown, it seems. "This conference has been a mess. People with food poisoning, four of my guys didn't show either cause they came down with something. The lighting in the south rooms keeps dimming--this is a mess."

"Water would be great, Josh," Mr. Marchesi says loudly, impatiently tapping his foot.

"Yes! Yeah, sorry, Marc. I'll keep checking on you guys. Anything else I should do? Take some notes?"

Marchesi seems unable to form a proper thought, as he stares at the ground, trying to focus. I wonder what exactly is inhibiting him this much, but with a dick that big, he might be sensitive.

I clear my throat. "Um... if Mr. Marchesi is feeling alright, even for a little bit, we'll text you. That might be the only window to meet Mr. Ortega."

Marchesi nods, and he sits up. "Yes, yes. Thank you Griffin. And inversely, if the big guy is by the halls at all, let me know, and I might be able to shape up for a few minutes to talk."

Josh claps his hands. "Got it. This is purely opportunity. I won't let you down! I'll be back with water in a few!" As we thank him, he jogs out of the room. We pause, waiting for his footsteps to go away before Marchesi and I look at each other.

"I'm gonna go jerk it," he says, throwing his hands up as if he's had enough. "I suggest you do the same. God, I can't fuckin' believe this."

Marchesi's angry horniness isn't doing anything to fan the flames of my own craving-to-be-dominated horniness, and I figure us separating actually is probably a good thing.

"There's a bathroom in the corner by the door. You can go first," I say quietly, curling into a ball on the floor. Luckily, Josh comes back quickly with four water bottles, and as soon as he leaves again, Marchesi rushes to lock the door.

"It's like I'm in fucking heat or something." He goes into the bathroom of the small meeting room, slamming the door. "Go back and tell whoever you got that mint from that their fucking product works."

"I'm sorry!" I say toward the closed door. Now, of course, I'm thinking about my boss jerking off his huge dick twelve feet away from me. It can't be an illusion. He's a big guy. That bulge was thick, and I couldn't look long enough to decipher if that monster I saw was the length, or just a fold in his pants.

Was he really in there with his hand around his cock? I mean of course he was. Sweaty and overheated, cramped in a tiny bathroom, trying to get off. The entire thing was my fault. Even as I shift on the floor, I feel the heat pooling into my lower belly even further. I have a feeling that it's not going to be enough. This is more than some morning hard-on that I need to take care of. My entire body is electrified. The last time I felt this way, I was being choked by my last girlfriend.

"Griffin." I hear from the door. I wonder if it was just in my head, and I pause. "Griffin??"

"Y-yes Sir?" I pop up, stepping toward the door.

"Fuckin' damn it... nevermind."

"Are you alright, Mr. Marchesi?"

A long pause later, and he speaks up again. "Come to the bathroom, hurry up."

There's no time to think, as I think he's already finished up, and it's my turn to try to relieve myself, until I knock on the door and immediately find myself yanked inside.

At the slightly haired chest at my eyeline, I feel my heartbeat quicken. The dim, icky light of the bathroom heightens my anxiety before I realize I'm standing in a five by five with my boss, who has his pants down but underwear on. A pair of briefs, with some compression.

And holy shit was that a huge dick.

Eight, nine inches? My wrist, it's my wrist size, I swear--

I look up, past his slightly unbuttoned shirt, and into his annoyed gaze, as he seems to be wondering why on earth he pulled me in here. I think I know. I don't know if my brain can go there.

"Sir..."

"Shut up. Let me think," Marchesi says, and I feel his body heat. We're barely a few inches apart. "This is a terrible idea. Nevermind."

"Ahhh, I m-mean, I can help you with whatever you need, right? I'm more than a f-fast... typer..." Oh god what am I saying?

Mr. Marchesi closes his eyes. "Are you straight?"

"Wh-what?"

"Are you straight."

My heart picks up, and I feel myself shaking my head "no." What?!

"Shit, not that it would matter," Marchesi says. "This is your fault. I vote we get each other off and end this. Unless you have a better idea."

"Separately... getting ourselves off?" It's stupid even as it's coming out of my mouth.

"You know damn well that's not going to do it," he says, sharply glaring at me. "Whatever drug we took is attacking every freakin' nerve. It's barely sexual."

I nod. "B-barely. Right?"

"Right. This is like having the flu or something," Marchesi says, his wide chest rising and falling right in front of my face. "C'mon. We've got a meeting to go to." His thumbs fiddle with the band of his briefs, and I figure it's now or never.

"Right. I am straight, by the way."

"You just said--"

"I was confused," I huff, looking down, and I take my shoes off to match him. Not sure why. I figure my tie should go, too, just to slightly de-professionalize. As it drops to the floor, Mr. Marchesi pulls his briefs down, and I watch that huge, huge cock come further into view.

"Woah."

"Shut up," he huffs, annoyedly. I close my eyes, and reach my hand out, but he stops me, grabbing my wrist.

"Aht aht, this is an equal exchange," Marchesi says as if any of this makes sense. "I'm not above... that, either. Pull 'em down. Faster we get this over with the better."

I can't say no if I wanted to. Which I don't want to...

My pants are around my ankles, and I know that I thought I had something to work with, but I'm ashamed now. The shame only causes my body to react even stronger, and I whimper, putting my hands in my face. "I'm sorry. This is all my fault."

"Yeah, yeah," Marchesi says softly, with a sigh. "Griffin. Look up at me." I do. "This is a freak accident. Like a car wreck. I'm not... entirely mad at you." I can tell he's trying to soften his naturally aggressive voice, and I appreciate it. "But... look. A situation is a situation."

He's right. Maybe in a roundabout, kinda fucked up way, but he's right. I nod, pulling down my boxers, and his eyelashes flutter as he looks down at me, my slender frame so opposite his own. I decide to grab him without looking, the shaft thick in my hands, like someone's wrist. Not too long after, his warm, thick fingers wrap around my own dick, and I instinctually step closer to him.

Don't think about it. Or... actually I probably should think about this. I won't properly get relief if I don't think about how hot it should be. B-but it's not... it's not hot... I'm in a terrible situation. He's a man for fuck's sake. He's my boss...

He's so intimidating to me... such a big man... with big hands...

I make the mistake of looking up at his raging, defined chest, and I feel my cock harden even further than I thought possible. He's panting as hard as I am, and his nipples have gone hard, softly peaking in his light-blue, almost off-white shirt.

"Mmmmf," I groan, squeezing my eyes shut. This isn't about him, no! It's about the situation. It's someone else getting me off, not my own hand. Someone else's thick fingers... wrapped around my cock. He doesn't expect me to moan about this. I can't make this worse than it is.

Before I know it, I've become entranced in our rhythm, the heavy breathing, wiping sweat from my forehead. As I feel the squeezing pressure of his hand around my cock, stroking back and forth with a slight twist, I keep up with my own hands, trying to form my own little bubble of concentration. I feel the pad of his thumb slip along the head of my cock, and I hold in another moan, letting off more of a soft yelp.

"Fuck," Marchesi whispers. As he cracks, I look up at him, just to find him already staring at me. The top of my head, perhaps. My eyes, now.

Of course, I've known him to be an attractive man. Being attracted to him was a different ballgame.

"Sorry," he huffs, breathy and sex-stricken. I watch his steely blue eyes scan over my face, and land on my lips, then back up to my eyes again. "This is... wow..."

"Yeah," I concur, out of breath myself. "No apology necessary, Sir."

"Mmf, I like when you call me 'Sir'," he says quickly, and he closes his eyes, a deeply frustrated yet guilty look on his face. "I always like it. You're the only person wh-who does it. Hhhnnn--fuck."

It's like a confession. He's thought about this before. My eyes go wide, and as my hand makes its way to the head of his thick cock again, he's more than dripping pre-cum. It's leaking out of him, and his dick pulses deeper in my hands. God, even this is hot. I'm not trying to depersonalize myself from this anymore. Mr. Marchesi was an unconditional part of this, too.

"I... I d-deeply respect you, Sir," I say softly, my voice cracking. I must be blushing by now, ragingly red under brown skin.

"Fuck, Griffin." He looks into my eyes again, squeezing my cock as I work his over. With his free hand, he grabs my chin to look up at him, and I'm at complete attention. He speaks between deep breaths, and I know the tension between us is rising to hit its peak. "I know... you think I... mmf... hate you. I don't. I definitely don't."

"Th-thank you, Sir."

"That again; 'Sir'. I mean, if you didn't have your face, it might be different, I don't know," he says, and then he shakes his head. "Fuck, just forget what I'm saying--" He drops his hand, landing it on my hip as we get even closer.

"You're hot," I finally admit, figuring that if we both buy into the moment, it might not be so... tedious...

He takes it up a notch. "Shit, Griffin, you're a sexy little thing," he replies, another forced confession from my stroking hands. "You look edible in that orange thing, goddamn--"

"I hate this shirt," I breathe.

"You look delicious as always, who gives a fuck," he says, shaking his head.

That's what he meant, then. When he said it didn't matter whether or not I was straight. If I'm attractive, it doesn't matter anyway. I put the pieces together, and don't hold my next moan, letting it escape breathily between us.

"I like being around you. Even though you're scared of me," he says frantically, pulling me even closer by my hip, fingers digging in.

My whimper doesn't go unnoticed, and I'm rewarded with a sultry look from Mr. Marchesi. As we both lean into the moment, I look up into his eyes through my eyelashes, unconsciously licking my own bottom lip.

"Especially because I'm scared of you," I say softly, feeling myself shiver, and my cock pulses in his palm.

"Shit. Shit," Marchesi gasps. Before long, I feel my own body hitch, and I squeeze my eyes closed, unable to turn back as I'm careening into something that's beyond a work mishap. He says it first. "I'm gonna fuckin' blow."

"Me too," I squeak. I look straight down at his tool in my hands, veiny but not intimidatingly rough. Just the healthiest penis a man could have. The juiciest, thickest, prettiest cock I've ever seen. Like a porno cock that's been edited but it's real and it's in my hands--

This is definitely the drug talking.

I whimper, and before I know it, my forehead slams against his chest as I start cumming in heaves, embarrassingly loud panting and moaning that I can't even stop. I'm damningly nauseous with this orgasm, as if I'm cumming out everything inside me, including my own breaths. My body goes limp, and the hand on my hip turns into an arm holding me up by my waist. I'm brought to tears as they peek from the corners of my eyes.

"Holy shit," Marchesi groans. Finally, I can stand on my own, but my mind hazes over.

I feel his big hand on the back of my head, fingers curling into my mess of brown, curly hair. He holds me close to his chest, and I take in his musk, the lingering woodsy cologne and his sweat, equally delicious.

My hands are lazily resting at his thighs for balance, and I don't realize when they slipped away from his dick. When I feel him stroking himself fervently beneath his waistline, I dig my fingernails into his thick thighs, and he shudders, cursing in frantic whispers before I feel him convulse, abs and chest clenching against my own body.

The spurts that hit my stomach and shirt are warm and viscous and that should make me disgusted but I'm only thinking about how much there is. Each splash against my body is equally strong, seemingly neverending. Finally, we both stand there panting.

If that wasn't the strongest climax I'll ever experience, then I think I'm scared.

After too much time, we detach, and the mess is... messy.

Marchesi looks us both over, and he frowns. "Can't waste time."

"Right," I manage to rasp. Like a true duo, we grab tissue, paper towels, sacrifice socks to use as rags, and use the air dryer to do the most amazing work we can do. As if he didn't just cum all over me. By the time we've managed to look decent, it's only our hair that's in shambles, although my shirt is pretty damning.

"I wasn't tryna be weird about your... about the way you look. By the way."

I'm drawing a blank. "Is something wrong? Do I look too fucked up?"

"No! No... you're perfect. It's fine."

"And my face?"

Marco shrugs. "Healthy, I dunno. Smooth, pretty, hazelnut, whaddaya want me to say?"

"... Nevermind."

"Nevermind. You have cum on your shirt, though."

"I have a container of that nasty salsa from the vegan place. I'll pour it on my shirt and we'll clean it again," I say quickly, happy to come up with another plan.

He beams. "You're so smart." He pulls out his phone. "Even better, I'll tell Lancaster to bring you a new shirt. Look me over; make sure I'm good."

"You're good."

"Step out into the fluorescents. Go, go," he says, and I hurry out of the bathroom. "I texted Lancaster that you chucked on your shirt."

"Embarrassing, but okay."

Josh comes to the door, and he jimmies the lock. "Hello? You guys still in there?"

"Yeah, one sec!"

--

--

Fifteen minutes before the meeting, and I'm still feeling the heat, wondering if it's just the residual. My body still remains sensitive, but the too-big replacement shirt of Josh's hides my erect nipples. The intense, fever-like desperation seems to fade, but as I glance at my boss, I can't help but feel it lingering.

"Josh is a cool guy," Marchesi breaks the silence, brushing his hair. "Even gave us Pepto."

I'm surprised he's acting normally at all. I guess it's abnormal, really. Not like he ever talks to me. Not sure what his normal is. He seems to have a good rapport with everyone in the office. Maybe I'm just too damn insecure.

"Yeah, good thing I didn't accidentally give him a mint."

Marchesi laughs for a moment, and he sighs before he turns to me. His face gets serious. The entirety of his Brooklyn accent comes spewing out in monotony.

"That. Never fuckin' happened. Not now, not three months in the future when ya wanna tell your best friend, not a year from now if ya work at the company still, not ten years from now when someone asks ya what's something ya never told nobody. Not even on your death bed when you wanna confess your deepest darkest secrets. Got it?"

I gulp, feeling my stomach drop with fear. "Yes, Sir."

"No more 'sir.' Mr. Marchesi or Marco," he says, adjusting his tie. "Still damn hot in here."

So it's not just me. I don't know why I feel like there's more impending. It'd be no surprise if I could stand to cum again. Nothing like that itching primal craziness that was just happening within the last hour and a half. I wonder if he meant all the things he said when we were together, or if it was the wrong wires being crossed in his brain. Mr. Marchesi thinking I'm a 'sexy little thing'... I'll chalk that up to him getting me in the mood, being willing to do that in the first place.

Regardless, I'm trying to streamline my brain into work mode, just for the rest of the day. Just for the next few hours, at least.

I can't look at Mr. Marchesi at all.

-----

Josh is unknowingly third-wheeling, although he thinks he's helping us out. Maybe he is. I don't know if I'd rather him be a buffer, or if I'd rather him leave so that Marchesi and I won't feel so compromised. We even endure a fifteen minute car ride with him telling us he'll take care of us for the day.

Perhaps we're a little too enthusiastic to tell people we've "come down with food poisoning," but it's fine in the midst of the chaos we just went through. It's also believable.

"Let's line up for OTech's consolt so we get in the room," Marchesi says, and he fervently chows down on a can of Pringles, and a large iced tea. I've never seen him snack.

As we finally get into the awaited room, I'm surprised that there's barely anyone there. I wonder if it's a mistake, until I see that we're indeed in the right place. There's only twenty or so in the room, and everyone is taking part in some light chatter.

It's like another wave of heat hits me, and I grow wary. I don't know if this drug can wear off after just one cumming. My anxiety could very well be more fuel for the pill.

"Which one is he?" I ask.

"Big tall dude with the long-ish hair."

I nod, setting our things across from him, as not many have seemed to claim seats yet. Mr. Marchesi himself is an imposing man, but to have an equally steely and dominant man in the room has me completely unconfident in myself, nor my ability to keep it straight during this uncharacteristically intimate meeting.

Scratch that. I can deal with twenty people having personal conversations. I just jerked my boss off in a tiny bathroom. I can do this. I can do this.

Even as people mingle, Marchesi grabs a savory scone from the table, and eats it without a second thought. Watching him almost makes my own stomach growl. Hopefully hunger is the only lingering effect of this thing. Hope is futile.

Once everyone begins to settle, our guy introduces himself, and so do the rest of the reps from their respective companies. I write everyone's names down to remember, but I mindlessly jot down random buzzwords and what I deem to be important talking points. It seems extraneous.

I'm not paying attention in the slightest. Reading over my scribbles of notes only distracts me more from the meeting at hand, and that distraction only leads to my thoughts wandering more and more. I'm only able to put it out of my mind for minutes at a time. His cock. It was too hot in my hands. I can't ignore it. He's sitting right beside me.

Marchesi accidentally drops his pen, and he huffs out a breath, as if he's been drifting away himself. Since it's closer to me, I go to reach for it at the same time as he does, knocking our foreheads together with a clunk. It's noticeable enough to stop the meeting where it stands, especially with Marchesi's not-so-whispery "shit," and me rubbing my forehead. Luckily, nobody comments. I'm actually not sure if that's better. Not even Josh comes up with a quip to save the moment.

It's eerily quiet after that, even as people speak.

I watch Marchesi thumb at the button on his pants incessantly, and his face remains blushed out. I can't help but keep glancing at him, which gets easier as the meeting seems to get more conversational again. I turn toward him, expecting to start keeping up with whatever conversation he might have with the guy beside him, but he and I end up in a hunched up bubble.

"I can't do this," he says quietly. I'm about to ask what's going on, but I already know. I'm barely containing the warmth in my own pants, despite my best efforts to ignore the shooting nerves in my stomach, all the way up to my chest. The goosebumps that keep coming in waves on my skin.

"There's only 28 minutes left," I assure him, feeling my toes curl at the warmth of his breath. He's not even that close, but I know I'm sensitive as hell.

"Not happening," he says, shaking his head. "Nope."

It's on my mind again, what we did earlier to relieve this exact thing. Here I am thinking we have to do it again. The very idea of having to grab Marchesi's cock again makes the feeling in the pit of my stomach sink further. The urgency makes it worse. It's hard to hide horny.

"Stop staring," he says through tightened lips, furrowing his eyebrows. I feel myself shrink, and I put my clipboard up to cover my mouth. "That's worse."

"You're not making this easy," I whisper.

"Stop acting like I'm turning you on and it's not that damn pill."

"You're not helping," I say shortly, because he doesn't seem to get that referencing himself in relation to my horniness is only adding to the problem.

"I'm not helping? You changed into an even brighter shirt just to tease me with that skin tone," Marco shudders. I'm pretty much speechless, but regardless, he cuts me off. "Shut up."

"I did not mean to--"

"Shut up," he says again.

After a long pause with Marchesi staring into the distance as if he's been caught in the headlights, he finally snaps.

Marco slams his hands on the table with a reverberating shake. As the entire table goes silent, the sound of the humming heater worsens the awkward silence. "I think we have food poisoning, gentlemen."

"We aren't feeling well," I find myself saying, a stark contrast to the booming declaration from an intensely red faced Mr. Marchesi. "W-we haven't been for a few hours now. We wanted to attend, because this is very important--"

"I'm sorry for my outburst," Marchesi says with a small nod. It's only then that I realize he's been grabbing my shoulder.

It's Gabriel himself who puts a hand up. "My marketer got sick as well. Miserable flu. He's been in his hotel room for the entire duration of the conference, attending by video. By all means, please." He waves us off with an understanding tone. "The last thing I want to do is force some sick guys to do work. Go take care of yourselves. Marco. We can catch up later. I'll be in your city next month."

"Thank you," we both say in a rush, gathering our things and practically running out of the room.

In fact, we keep running, all the way to the elevator, where Marchesi presses the button a good twenty times as we ridiculously heave oxygen into our lungs. "Why are we running?" I wheeze.

"I don't know," he replies, equally out of breath. "You started it."

"I didn't."

"Whatever." He looks me up and down, the glint in his eye obvious. "I'm gonna--you have no idea what I'm--just you wait until we're back at the room." He tugs at his tie, and I have to physically turn away from him to keep from all-out squirming where I stand. My mind might shut down with all the possibilities.

In fact, everything is a blur until the moment we're in a Lyft, and Mr. Marchesi subconsciously grabs my knee in the backseat. He quickly snatches it away as if he's touched a hot stove.

"Shit," I curse without thinking, and decide to stare out the window, just to have any hope of acting semi-normally in this ride. The driver doesn't deserve two outrageously horny businessmen in their backseat. Nobody does.

I'm incessantly tapping my foot, and can't seem to stop it no matter what I do. It doesn't help that I feel Marchesi staring at me, and partially see him glaring down the back of my head in the window's reflection. I have to open it to get air.

As soon as we're back, it suddenly hits me. What we're about to do.

I'm standing in front of our room door, just staring into the peephole as Marchesi gets caught by someone in the hall, and he barely can keep up a facade of being fine. Whoever he chats with comments on his flush, and Marco reverts to explaining food poisoning before I feel his hand on my lower back, and he presses his own keycard to the door. It's like he can't help himself from touching me. The coast is clear as we stumble inside.

I hardly have my shoes off before he's looming behind me, grabbing me by the waist and turning me around, smashing our lips together. I'm caught by surprise, and my hands end up on his shoulders to balance myself, but I accidentally push him away in an effort to fully realize the situation.

Marchesi looks downright offended, and he furrows his brows. "What? Don't tell me you're one of those people who doesn't kiss."

"I-I'm not." I must not sound convincing. He takes a step back.

"Wait, we're gonna fuck, right?" Marchesi tilts his head down to look at me, scanning from head to toe. He's deadass. "Are we on the same page??"

"Of course! Of course, of course--unless you uh, didn't want--"

"This is stupid. Come here." Marchesi grabs my waist again, pulling me close and continuing our makeout.

Once I snap out of it, rather into it, I feel my eyes roll back in my head, my body instantly responding to his pursuit. Marco is on me in a second, tonguing my mouth like he's searching for my insides with it. At least it was indeed a good mint. Hours later, and our breaths are fresh.

Being kissed this forcefully reminds me that this is absolutely the craziest way to find out I probably like men, and apparently very manly ones who intimidate me to my bones.

The harder I breathe, the more Marco wants to smother me, which is only consequential. He doesn't seem to have a second thought about this at all. I've never been grabbed like this. I've never grabbed a girl this way either. This guy plans to really fuck me.

Marchesi leads us to his bed, where he sits, and I stand. He can't keep his hands or mouth off of me, despite us mutually trying to strip down. Finally, we get to a point where rutting against each other isn't doing it anymore, and I practically volunteer myself to my knees, not sure why. The reaction I get is worth it, though. Subtle surprise, vague amusement. Probably the best I could hope for from a man like him.

"I haven't been with a guy in... I don't know how fuckin' long," he says aloud with a huff, an admittance. I don't know why I figured this already, that he wasn't new to this. I get goosebumps instantly.

"I've never been with a guy," I nod, eyes instantly drifting to the bulge in his briefs. I've already seen it; not sure why I'm so nervous at this point--

"Huh? I thought you were bluffing back there. Get up. Don't waste your time. C'mere." He beckons me back up, and I'm confused. "Not getting head from an amateur right now."

"B-but--"

Marchesi shakes his head. "Not while I'm this horny. We can experiment later. Lay down. Ass up."

I do as I'm told. Marchesi fishes in his bag for a condom and some lube, which makes sense in retrospect. It's not like these business trips weren't known for some of this activity. The moment his hands are on me, I feel self-conscious, and I can't help but tense up as he slides my shorts down.

"I-I mean, you don't have to do all this--"

"Patience. Patience. If you tap out then what? Don't get all embarrassed now." Marchesi huffs, annoyed. "I don't plan on--" he grunts, shifting our position again, "---fucking you for five minutes and just getting a nut in." Something about his tone tells me he means this quite wholeheartedly, and I'm going to just have to push past this. I don't wanna only last for five minutes anyway. Intimidating as his cock is, I want to at least have a chance.

He's quite methodical, honestly. I can't help but go along with everything. Every moment. The first finger is shockingly easygoing, the lube and condom making their way inside me like it's natural. Even as he opens me up, hands spreading my ass apart like I'm a fucktoy, I accept the second finger with almost no issue. Just an incredible pressure that won't let me catch my breath. A burn that won't ease up, but something I don't want to go away, like the come up on a high. The third finger is when I start to realize I got cocky for a moment. Marchesi's cock is way bigger than this, isn't it?

"Relax," he says, in a not-very-relaxing tone, and I try my best. Another cold spurt of lube later, and I hear myself actually moaning at the sensation, gripping the pillows and bucking up my hips for more. I hear him curse to himself softly, and I wonder if it's just the effect of the mint, if its me, or if he just has that kind of attraction to find my ass so appealing.

"Turn over. I wanna see your face," he demands. Embarrassing again, but I comply, turning over to what seems like a new man. His hair is slightly tufted, his tie tugged away from his collar, shirt slightly unbuttoned. Just in his own briefs. What a choice. The blush on his face is really what's throwing me at the moment. He's really into this. I'm really... into this.

I'm not surprised that he finds my face appealing. On a regular day, to someone who isn't trying to rip me apart due to an erection pill, I tend to draw attention. Unwanted most of the time, though I'm not blind to the compliments. The 'you have nice lips' and 'you'd look amazing with a nose ring' and the 'what's your skin routine' quips have come up in small talk often enough for me to realize I have some desirable symmetry.

It hammers into the back of my mind, that Marco called me a pretty face, complimented my skin tone...

I can't help but grab at his tie, somewhat timidly, but then he gives me a look, and I fully grasp onto the thing, yanking him close to me and kissing him as hotly as before. I watch him scuffle off his underwear, and his cock springs up a bit, but it's too heavy to do much else. As if I could really protest, I'm seemingly shoved and grabbed and pulled around until Marchesi has me where he wants me.

For a moment, I watch him as the moment slows down, his meticulous nature taking over again, one hand on my chest holding me down, the other hand stroking himself at a decent pace. I wonder where the next condom is going to come from until I realize he already has it on, and he's basically ready to start pushing in.

That's when I get scared again, and it must show in my face, because Marchesi looks me over, and tries to question me with his eyes, but I just end up shaking my head. "What if I'm not... g-good..."

"Impossible. Hush." Marchesi slides his hand down to my waist as he nestles closer between my legs. I feel him nudge closer and closer, and I keep wanting to look down, but his gaze keeps me locked in.

Before I know it, Marco has started the inevitable prodding, and I'm just bracing myself. His whole presence lights me on fire at this point, and I don't know how to respond. I only can take him in push by push, inch by thicker inch.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh fuck--" I can't help it at some point, groaning out curses as the pressure is almost too much for me to handle, and I grip onto Marco's forearm, closing my eyes as I take him in. No way this thing would be able to move. No way. No--

"Shit," we both end up saying at the same time, feeling everything give way as he glides inside. For a moment, we're just panting, taking in breaths as much as we can. Marco stares at his cock, giving another push.

"You're so fucking tight it's unreal," he comments, hands squeezing at my thighs. "Not hurt are ya?"

"No," I said, unsure if that was true. It wasn't hurt, just pressure. Lots of pressure, and an ache that felt different than anything resembling pain. Good pain? The overwhelming sex of it all overshadowed any of that. I need him to just stay still for now, though. I'm feeling muscles that I didn't ever think about before.

"Fucking shit, my first time has to be with a guy with a huge dick," I half complain, half marvel at him.

Marchesi licks his bottom lip, as if he's covering up a smirk. "Ha, lucky you. You'll be addicted to me. Spread 'em." Damn, it's like he's a different man, but at the same time, not at all. He gently smacks at my thighs. I do as I'm told, and Marchesi wastes no time building a slow rhythm once we're in position. I bite my fist with the moans at first, but then I have to sit on my elbows to keep myself from losing it. Every time I think I'll flinch with pain, I just end up with my nerves shooting all the way down to my toes.

The switch happens instantly, where every move we make starts to become endcapped in pleasure, and I can't fathom not wanting this, why I'd never thought of pursuing getting fucked by another man. Right now, every nerve in my body is firing for the way Marchesi is fucking into me. The taboo of it all has worn off, and I just want this man to keep drilling me until I cum, he cums, or both.

I just keep with the obscenities under my breath, pitifully moaning and trying not to clench so much, trying to breathe, but failing pretty miserably at everything. Marco has me falling apart. Not that I'm complaining. I just can't get a fucking grip. Sex has never felt this way. It doesn't compare. I have to remember that there's a drug in both our systems that ended up with us doing all this. Either way, I hardly feel like any girl I've been with has felt the way I do right now. There's no way I've fucked anyone this hard; been this imposing of a force on top of someone else.

As I realize I've completely bitched myself out for Mr. Marchesi, I let out a semi-defeated whimper, causing him to nod a little bit. "Started to think you were lying, ha," he breathes. "Finally I get some real noise outta you. Amateur, my ass."

"I c-could--wouldn't lie to you, S-Sir--M-Mr. March-ch--"

"Alright, alright, calm down," he says, leaning in, thrusts getting deeper, doing the opposite of calming me down. Maybe he means to render me speechless instead. That, to me, is better anyway.

Every stroke has me struggling to keep my eyes open, and as much as Marco seems to enjoy using my body, I'm enjoying being used. Before long, its impossible to not crave more from him, to move my hips along with his. Even the subtlety of it makes him breathe out, as if he's waiting for me to react to him each time. It's making me feel bad for not being more expressive, but I'm not sure what else to do with such a huge dick stretching me out.

"W-way too big," I manage to comment, and that has him hiding a smirk again. Didn't know I could possibly get more turned on. Marco wipes the sweat from his forehead, and he simply nods in response, giving me an extra shove. "Not gonna comfort me?" I try to play it off, and I get him to chuckle this time.

"Clearly we don't know each other," he mumbles, then he looks me in the eye. "I'm gonna get you to lose it again."

I consider asking what he means, but I don't get the chance before I'm basically folded in half, Marchesi grabbing the back of my thighs, closing his eyes as he pounds away. I'm covering my mouth before I register how different this is, and how he must've been holding back, warming me up for the last ten minutes or so. I suppose he's done playing nice.

Overwhelmed as I am, we must've ended up in sync at some point, because there's no words between us; Marco knocks into me as if this is why we've come to this conference. He's fucking me like it's his job today. I get the thought in my head to take it like I'm being paid to. I don't know what that means exactly, but the thought makes me relax, and instantly, another moan escapes my chest.

The way Marco reacts to my moaning, a satisfied or beckoning hum or exhale, makes me even more turned on. I feel like I must be giving him scraps here, being so inexperienced. He's probably used to exciting people.

"I'm gonna cum, holy shit--" I end up groaning, accidentally shoving at his chest. Marchesi doesn't miss a beat, leaning in and fucking me harder. He's completely unfazed by me pushing him, as if I didn't even try.

"Go on, right there? Come on, Griff, I wanna see you fuckin' lose it like you did back there, yeah?"

"Haaa, you m-must've liked that," I quip, not even knowing where it comes from.

"Oh, you've got jokes. Fuck yeah I liked seeing that shit..." Marco suddenly stops moving his hips, and I watch a different blush wash over his cheeks as he looks down. I wonder for a moment what's in his head before he pulls out of my ass, and he scoots off the bed. I sit up, confused watching and waiting--just for him to close his eyes, and take nearly my full dick down his throat in one fell swoop. It's like he knows how I'll react, and he pushes my chest down to the bed.

The first thing I know is that I'm gonna cum immediately, and I try my hardest not to do that, but then I realize that this is exactly what Marco seems to want. This sight is sending shockwaves through my whole body. I've had my dick sucked enough times, but this is a truly special sight. Marco is double my damn size, pretty much. His arms boulder out from each side, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, not overly hairy but damp with sweat like the rest of him as he grips onto my spread thighs. His biceps can't even hide in his work button-down, flexing subtly within the sleeves as he gulps me down.

I know he dwarfs me in every way, but he's making my six inches look like nothing much, taking my brown cock into his lips and down his throat with a gusto akin to the voracious snacking he did earlier. I'm basically shivering with anxiety at the newness of the entire thing. Usually I'm not so exposed--or half fucked--when I get head. From girls. Women who are legitimately half his size have made a show of their excitement for my manhood. The sight of getting my cock sucked down usually made me feel powerful. I'm helpless right now.

Marchesi's hands aren't wrapping around my thighs entirely, but it feels like they are as I'm held still, ass twitching from the sudden loss. I'm the one feeling so open and exposed when he's desperately taking me into his hot mouth, slurping shamelessly, nose burying into my wiry pubes with every descent. I thought I was on fire before, but I feel like I don't have a mind anymore as it dissolves from my head down into my body with his expert tonguing and sucking.

All in a moment, I'm trusting him with my second load of the day, and watching as he basically swallows it all with no hesitation.

It seems we're both equally surprised by his actions. Marchesi wipes his forehead, and within no time, he's sliding close to me again. "Fuck you staring for? It's been a while, okay?"

"I..." Not sure why I tried starting a sentence. I'm still shocked.

"Couldn't help it. There a problem?" That tilt of his head again. Somehow it sends more shivers down my spine than the cumming did.

I shake my head. "No, Sir."

His turn to get chills. He smirks again, lubing himself up before pushing in again, making me arch my back and gasp for about the millionth time. "You tired?"

"Exhausted."

"Well. You're taking me no sweat. It's embarrassing that I'm so much hornier than you," Marchesi mumbles, wiping his forehead.

I sit up. "I literally just came five seconds after you started giving me... head..."

"Then don't be weird about this," Marco shrugs, leaning in to kiss me, tongue first. Hard to not think about the load of mine he just swallowed, especially when I can taste it. He distracts me easily, though. There's no ignoring the pole he's calling a dick. "What position you want?"

"C-can you keep doing whatever you want with me?" I ask, voice soft enough I don't think he hears. As I clear my throat to repeat myself, Marco nods, and he sits up, finally stripping his shirt off completely. "I guess what I mean is--"

"Turn around for me," he says. "I know what you meant. Don't get shy."

I take a beat to look at him, shocked at the ink on his chest. How hadn't I spotted it earlier? It's perfectly hidden; two geometric alligators, one curving around each pec. I haven't seen anything like it, and I look down further to see more reptiles in a bicep sleeve on his right arm, mixed in with flowers, plants, and Roman numerals. It doesn't look particularly old. I mean, it doesn't look twenty years old, so I wonder if he's adding to it.

Marco catches me staring, and sits up straighter to let me get a good pore over his body. "What? I don't just sit behind my desk all day." Clearly not. My natural abs are put to shame by his wide torso of sculpting. He's not the lowest in body fat either, which is all the more impressive. Something about the maturity, the toughness, the lack of complete smoothness along his body, it gives me goosebumps. He was hiding this from us at work with suit jackets.

I finally flip over onto my stomach, wondering if I'll survive his forty-something-year-old strength, combined with the strength he's worked for in the gym, on top of this mint that has him furiously horny.

For a moment, Marchesi's acting soft with me, hands gliding along my back, gently positioning my legs. I guess I am lucky. Mr. Marchesi clearly knows what he's doing. Or at least, he knows what he wants from me.

I just want to keep getting fucked stupid.

Sure enough, I'm bracing myself with a moan, and I can just tell Marchesi is watching himself enter me. Pale and thick compared to my ass, stretching around him like a chocolate donut.

As he pulls me into him, yanking my waist and his dick punching my guts, I can barely keep my eyes open. My heart pounds so hard, it messes with my breathing. I'm trying to catch my breath while it's fucked out of me.

"Fuck," he pants, smacking my ass harshly. I whimper with the slap, tightening my legs to lessen the load. "Mnh, nope," Marco says, adjusting me to where I was before, pulling me to his whims by my thighs. "Take the whole thing, Griff. Good job. That's it, fuuuck yeah."

Damn that voice alone has me shaking.

"It's big, shit," I can't even help the moment of truth here.

"Mm, and you're a skinny little thing, too. Look at that," he smacks my ass again, and this time, I actually just take more in. Geting fucked has never crossed my mind. Now, I can't imagine any other time I've had sex. It's like those other times weren't real. My current experience with Mr. Marchesi has rewired my entire body.

I can't do much more than pitiful moans and gasps, holding it together by a thread while my ass is stretched to the limit. My cock rhythmically thuds against my own lower belly as Marchesi keeps up his pace.

Not sure if I ever caught the shame bug about the idea of having a man on top of me, probably because I hadn't considered the possibility. But all I want now is to stay ass up for Marchesi.

I don't know how long it's been, but our third position has Marco somehow pinning me against both the bed and the wall as I hold on for dear life. I've realized that I particularly enjoy it when he does an extra shove with his hips. He tends to grunt. I didn't know a grunt could be so fucking hot. Being full of another man's cock is pretty hot, too. My ass up until this point has lived a pretty boring life. Now, the tight muscle practically flutters around him, waking up to the throbbing invasion and welcoming with an open stretch.

I wonder how he hasn't cum yet. I'm close again. That's when I sit up on my elbows, and notice the condom on the floor, tied off. "Wait, when did that happen?" I gasp, pointing down, and almost getting knocked off balance.

"While ago," Marco says, as if I'm supposed to have noticed. He pulls out, turning me back over to face him. "You got distracted."

"Or you hid it," I tease, catching my breath. "You seem like the type."

Marco huffs. "You're nice and bold now. Maybe I'll put that to the test, huh?" With that, he raises his eyebrows at me, swinging one leg over his shoulder. "You know, this isn't just opportunity sex, by the way."

"I don't even know what that means, Sir," I pant, gripping the sheets.

"Ha, fuck, I mean," Marchesi pauses, adding yet more lube, "I shouldn't say."

I'm not sure what face I'm making, but Marchesi sighs, as if I've scolded him or something.

"Why pout? I'm just saying... if you'd've come to my office and wanted to fuck before this, I would've done it. Ready your pretty ass. I'm gonna cum again."

He's pushing in again before I get my words out.

"Fucking shit," I moan out. "That's the mint talking! That's the mint--taahhhh--"

"Nope," Marco practically cuts me off as he shakes his head. "You're sexy as all fuckin' hell, Griff. And you take dick perfectly. Relax. I'm gonna keep enjoying this."

Wouldn't protest him even if I could. I earn deeper strokes this time, slower, more intense. Not only do I feel the stretch, I get to hear him too. The moans he can't hold back in my ear, the thudding of his body against mine, and more and more. Fucking shit, I don't even want it to end at this point. To think that Marchesi is implying that he'd have taken me like this anytime--it's too much.

He's splitting me open now, digging deep and pounding me like he's got a grudge. If I said I don't love the desperation, I'd be lying. Everything about the deep ache makes me turn more and more into putty. Marchesi has stunned me into someone else, the way I'm moaning like a bitch and offering my hole like dinner to this hungry man.

"Fuckin' perfect, Griff. Absolutely fucking amazing, baby. You feel my cock? How fucking good is that, huh?"

Way better than it should be, for never considering a dick in my ass before today. "Too good, Sir. T-too--"

"You gonna keep calling me Sir? It's fucking hot..."

"It-it's a habit. Sorry--shit. Sorry."

Marco chuckles. "Slutty little habit you gave yourself. Is that just for me? Wish I hated it even a little."

I feel my entire body flush with heat at the realization. I try to play it off. "It's a-a respect thing."

Apparently I don't respect many people in the office, because I can't think of another man I address in such a way. Maybe I just can't think of another man. I don't know if any men exist other than me and the one claiming my ass right now. Even further, Marco seems to laugh at my excuse.

"I feel bad now," he breathes, slowly fucking into me, massaging my insides, and poking against something that makes me squirm where I lay.

"Why?" I ask.

"You're talkin' about respect," he shakes his head, looking over my entire body, "and I've shamelessly wanted to fuck you for months now." Not for the first time since this mess started hours ago in the bathroom, he gets embarrassed, and it finally sets in that this is a fantasy come true for him.

Holy shit.

Me.

He really means it. I can't believe it.

My body lurches toward another climax at the realization, and I'm not even sure there's anything left for me to cum out of my spent sack. I close my eyes, taking in thrust after thrust, feeling him so deep that I forget there's intestines between my ass and my stomach.

We're face to face again, Marco folding me in half as he carves a cock-sized cavern into my ass with every drilling. The squelching is downright unholy. I feel like his personal fleshlight, getting so thoroughly stretched and pulverized to accommodate him. The thought even crosses my mind to let him finish inside me.

My hips have been moving along with him, meeting him at the end of each thrust to greedily imbibe his cock within me. There's something wickedly sweet about knowing that I'm what he wants, knowing he's satisfied and desperate for me at the same time.

"Fucking sexy as hell," Marchesi groans, knocking my breaths away effortlessly. "I'm close again."

"Mmm, please, Marco," I moan, offering up any part of my body to him that he wants. My neck to kiss, my back to grab as leverage, anything. I wonder how amateur I am to him honestly, He seems to know exactly what he wants to do with me.

Right as he grabs my waist in his hands and holds on for dear life to fuck me senseless, beginning a relentless pace and knocking the bed into the wall, we're shocked out of our bubble by a knock at the door.

"Marc! It's Josh! Just checking in on you, man." Another knock. "You alright?"

Marco freezes, fully buried inside me, and his eyes slide over to the door, just a few feet away. I feel his heartbeat in my ass.

"You're fucking kidding me," he whispers. Another knock.

I feel myself panic a little, and look at the clock. It's been basically an hour since we've run away from the important meeting that Josh obviously heard about. I just wonder why the hell he showed up here.

"What do we--"

Marco shushes me, and he pauses for a moment. Josh knocks again. I'm instinctually about to say something when he covers my mouth, and he shakes his head. "Fuck him."

Marco proceeds to slam into me as persistently as he was twenty seconds ago, and the bed knocks against the wall as he takes his hand from my mouth, and I gasp, wide-eyed.

"Ah! Ohhh, shit--W-wait, Marco!"

"He's so nosy, he can hear if he wants," he grumbles. Then he grunts aloud, not bothering to hide. "You still close?"

I think of Josh on the other side, hearing our obvious fucking, and start an anxious round of sweating, cock pulsing with every throb of my heart. I don't know what to say. I can't seem to set a single boundary.

I close my eyes, groaning into his chest as I curl up into him with my arms around his shoulders, taking every plunge. The slight adjustment in the angle has him shoving right against my prostate, which only has me crying out louder as I whine and fight the tears that spring to my eyes. Marco simply hums with pleasure, thumbs massaging at my hips as he pushes deep, fast, and hard enough for anyone three rooms away to know what we're up to.

"Fuck, you're perfect," Marchesi groans, sliding his full length in and out, making sure to get the most out of my body. My ass is curated just for his fitting at this point. His stamina is insane. I've barely kept up with him, and I'm reaching the edge of what I'm capable of taking here. Driving right into my inner trigger is making me crazy, and loud. This is exactly what lights him ablaze as he begins praising me and my moaning.

"Oh, you sound so pretty, Griff. Right there? Yeah? Right fuckin' there, huh?" Marco eagerly encourages right in my ear. "Still so tight, choking my damn cock right now, even like this. Goddamn perfect."

A particularly hard thrust has me jerking my leg, pulling him in for a kiss that I'd been wanting for a while, all tongue and teeth and lips while he stays locomotive within me. "Ah! Shit!" I don't recognize my own damn voice at this point.

"Gonna cum for me?" he growls, fingernails digging into my hips, and my ass cheek.

"Yes!" I feel the moment build in my stomach, and I muster the last of my sanity to look up and right into him. "Yes, Sir."

His blue eyes snap shut, and he moans, shoving deep inside and kissing me with everything he has.

I think I blackout for a moment.

How it's possible to orgasm so hard, cock relatively untouched... I'm sure it's the mint. I'm sure it's also because Marco Marchesi is a steam engine. It's fitting that we finish together, making out as if we shouldn't be sick of each other by now.

When we finally pull apart, I'm too spent to even keep my eyes open. As I catch my breath, Marco and I lay naked, curled up together on his bed, sheets and covers strewn about as if we were a tornado.

A few minutes later, and I feel him shift, mouth wetly kissing under my chin. His hands wander about my body, drifting along my shoulders and arms, my chest, down my abs, to my hip. I relish every touch with a gentle squeeze of his shoulder, where my hand lazily rests.

----

Just when I'm sure we're about to fall asleep, Marco grunts. "Could you grab my wallet? It's right there on the corner."

I reach up, lazily sliding my hand around above my shoulder until I grab the leather foldable, and Marco pulls out his phone. "Would you look in there for the sky blue business card? Topeka House. I gotta call them and say we won't make it."

We could probably make it. He doesn't want to. His legs and mine have been entwined under the covers for the last half-hour. Marco checks his phone, and scoffs.

"Lancaster asks how we're doing. He said we 'sound healthy.'"

"Sarcastic bastard," I scoff. "Why did you do that, by the way? He heard us."

"I'm sorry," Marco says, not sounding sincere in the least. "Josh won't dare say anything, promise." I wonder how well they really know each other.

He sits on his elbow, still half-hovered over me, pulling out his phone again and texting a few people as I fish for the card in his wallet. I grapple with pulling out the card from the corner, and I catch a glimpse of his ID.

Marchesi, Marco

D. O. B. 1/28/77.

I accidentally rip the corner from the business card as I yank at it, and I sit up, shoving his wallet into his hand. "S-sorry. I ripped it."

"It's fine."

Twenty years. Twenty years older than me. He was right.

First off: there's no way I'm telling any of my friends I slept with a man, let alone an Italian white man two decades older. Quite literally my father's age. My boss. Secondly:

Holy shit does Marco not look almost fifty. He does not fuck like he's almost fifty.

My body teems with a familiar feeling. The excitement I craved earlier. I realize I'm staring him down when he looks up at me, putting his phone to his ear.

"Hey, Harv. It's Marc," he says, his other hand drumming on my knee. "Doing better, thanks. Listen, though... we can't make the last meeting." His warm fingers wrap around my thigh again, and he squeezes. "Food poisoning, yeah. It is a shame, you're right--oh?" Marco raises his brows at me. "Erection pills? Who did some shit like that?"

I clasp my hand over my mouth, pointing at the phone. Marco puts it on speaker. "What happened, Harvey?"

"Some idiot college kids pranked the conference, givin' out dick pills and saying it was mints. Far as we know, nobody got hurt real bad, but two guys had their heart rates skyrocketing bad so they got treated, had to be rushed off. They caught these kids before they handed out their whole stash at lunch time. Between that and the food poisoning, twenty percent of the damn conference was out of commission. Can you believe it?"

"That's insane," Marco says, reaching up to cup my face in his hands. "Someone could've died." He mouths to me: 'I'm sorry.'

Ah, it wasn't exactly my fault after all. Fucking me was... inevitable, it seems.

That apology was definitely more sincere. I put my hand over his, and he glides a thumb over to my lips, gently sliding the pad of his finger along them.

"Well, sorry this thing was a disaster. At least you guys didn't end up walking around with straight shooters the whole day."

Maybe Harvey is dumb.

"That would've been hell," Marco says knowingly, slipping his thumb between my lips. I graciously accept, eyes closing. "Can't say having to chuck every two seconds is that great either. I actually probably better go..."

"Of course Marc! Feel better man. See you tomorrow."

"Indeed," he says, hanging up. He hardly waits for the screen to turn off before sitting up with me, pulling my face close, and kissing me as if the sorry wasn't enough. "Mmm. That is a work hazard."

"Wouldn't be the first thing I fucked up."

"Ah..." Marchesi is obviously blushing again as he turns away, grabbing his water bottle. "You know, Griff."

"Hmm?"

"I always felt bad about when we met. You tried jokin' with me and I talked about my dad dyin'. I always felt like I made a shitty first impression..." He grumbles the last part. He's an honest guy. It feels like a ton of weight is lifted off my shoulders.

"I thought I was the one who made a shitty impression--"

"I mean you sent me drawings of half-naked girls later on. I feel like that's the only time I really had some sorta weird opinion 'bout ya," Marchesi waves me off. "I mean, I already admitted to... wanting to get in your pants for a while."

"... So do you like black guys or something?"

Marco chokes on his water, waving his hand defensively as I pat his back. I can't believe how casually I'm touching him at the moment, like I wasn't scared out of my socks about him a few days ago. "No! I mean very much yes, but it's not like that. Earlier, I got tripped up and--"

"I was half-joking!" I interject. "I had to tease you."

"If you must know, I could give a damn about skin tone," Marchesi looks me up and down. "More of a body type thing."

My mind could spiral. "Like what?"

"Skinny, cute ass, long legs..." Marco's eyes slide over to meet mine, "... pretty face. Pretty skin is a bonus."

He's totally feminized me in his mind since he's known me. Not sure if I should be offended, because I'm definitely not. All I can think about is the fact that we have the rest of the night together in this room. I think about what might've happened if he took someone else on this trip. Or if he meant to ask me all along.

I chuckle a little to myself, my fear of him having dissipated, though not entirely. He could easily want to pound me into the floor, and I'd just take it. He could very well pretend he doesn't know me when we're a work, and I'd have to take that, too.

I wonder what it'll mean when we're back at work. If his admittance to desiring me for months means that this isn't a fluke. If I'm gay or something now, because an aphrodisiac had me craving cock so badly from this man.

"What are you thinkin'?" he asks softly, leaning in.

"Marco..."

What if I want to see him again?

I decide to hold that thought.

It feels like forever as I stare, encapsulated into blue eyes, vibrant with desire for me yet again. I just wonder... and wonder...

"Griffin?"

I take a deep breath.

"I'm not actually that good at typing."

---

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Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed this horny mess. Please tell me what you enjoyed about it below and rate well if you liked it! There's so many stories I want to share and many to finish, and I appreciate those of you who have been reading for years.