Your Office Instruction

You're sitting at your new desk, busying yourself with paperwork, Your phone buzzes and you answer it. Your new boss's voice comes through, mature, full of confidence:

"Could I see you in my office?" It sounds like you you have a choice, you are sure you don't.

Your heart rate spikes. You expected this, of course--there's always an orientation welcome, a walk-through, or a little speech about culture at every new job.

What you didn't expect was how much this man would get to you. You've never been so consciously aware of your own posture, your handshake, the fact that you're sweating through your button-down even in the over-airconditioned chill.

You stand, smooth your shirt, and cross the office maze, feeling eyes on your back. You ignore the twinge of embarrassment--no one is actually watching, but you feel exposed, picked out. His door is open, but you knock anyway, out of habit.

"Come in," he says, not looking up from his monitor.

He's enormous. All the photos on the company website had been headshots, tight-cropped and bland. In person, he's six-four, broad everywhere, a block of a man with a shaved head, thick beard and black suit jacket like a second skin.

You hover in the doorway, suddenly aware of how small you are, how you're probably not standing straight enough.

Finally he glances up, his smile is quick, decisive.

"Sit down."

There's only one guest chair, and you try not to look like you're perching on the edge. He lets the silence stretch uncomfortably as he closes a few tabs on his computer, leaving you time to shift, to feel the weight of his presence, to notice that his office smells faintly like cologne and electrical ozone.

When he speaks, his voice is so deep it seems to vibrate your sternum.

"So, why'd you leave your last job?" He leans forward, hands folded as if ready to referee an arm-wrestling match.

You stammer through an answer, trying to sound confident but not cocky, self-effacing but not pathetic. You fail on all accounts.

He watches you the whole time--really watches, eyes intense and unblinking even when you trail off or contradict yourself. When you finally run out of air, he smiles again, this time showing teeth.

"I like honesty. That's good. How are you with feedback?"

You say you're fine with it, but your voice cracks, and he laughs--a huge, unembarrassed bark. Your face flushes. You sense he's the type who enjoys power, who likes making people squirm just to see how they'll react.

It's not the first time you've worked for a gay man; but this is different. This man radiates authority, and it makes you both anxious and, you have to admit, something else. Something you aren't ready to name.

You wonder if he can sense it in you: not desire, exactly, but that strange sideways thrill of being the helpless object of attention. You can't decide whether you want to impress him or be humiliated by him, and the confusion makes your mouth go dry.

He asks a few more questions--about your writing, your deadlines, your "conflict resolution style"--but you barely hear them. You're thinking about his hands, the way his forearms flex when he types, the way he takes up so much space that your own body seems trivial, replaceable. When the meeting is over, you shake his hand again--it's like being caught in a vice, but not unpleasant.

He launches, unprompted, into a monologue about the men in the office--first by name and title, then by body part. It's so brazenly inappropriate you freeze, but the boss doesn't seem to care if you're shocked. He describes the way one of the sales guys walks, hips rolling "like a porn star on a treadmill," then gives a frank, leering assessment of an IT guy's "Olympic-level ass." He asks if you've met any of them yet, if you have a "type," and you laugh nervously, the way you'd laugh at an uncle who makes jokes you're too young to get.

When he realizes you're not going to volunteer any secret crushes, he raises an eyebrow and speaks.

"Not your thing?" He asks.

You shake your head, suddenly desperate to assert some kind of normal, to wrest the conversation back to safe ground. "I'm actually... I'm not... I mean, I'm straight?" It comes out as a question. He grins at you.

The conversation keeps veering into dangerous territory. He talks about the after-hours drinks, the HR holiday parties, the fact that the CEO is "definitely not straight, no matter what his wife thinks." He keeps looping back to you, lightly ribbing, probing for a reaction.

"You seem open-minded," he says, "and I like that. Makes things easier." He watches you flinch, then sits back, arms crossed, like he's waiting for you to break character and admit it's all a joke.

You want to protest, to clarify again that you really, truly aren't interested in men, but you're not sure if the denial would help or make you look more suspicious. You're too aware of him, the way his gaze lingers a little too long on your throat or your hands, the way he seems to be cataloguing your every reaction for later use. You start to sweat again, despite the glacial air-conditioning, and you wonder if maybe you're giving off some invisible signal you can't control. Or maybe this is just what men like him do for fun.

He doesn't seem convinced or concerned by your insistence; if anything, he seems entertained, like he's found a new puzzle to solve. "Relax," he says, in a tone that makes your skin crawl. "You're safe here. Unless you don't want to be."

There's a long, deliberate pause. He lets the meaning hang in the air between you, and you realize with a kind of sick clarity that he's not just testing boundaries--he's waiting to see if you'll let him cross them.

Then he stands up from his desk, the movement is so abrupt you flinch. He's taller than you thought, looming behind the monitor like a golem. He comes out from behind the desk, and for a moment you're not sure whether you're supposed to stand, too, or just stay put and watch him close the distance.

He doesn't break eye contact. You feel the heat climbing your neck, pooling in your ears, as he circles around to your side of the desk and stops just a little too close.

Next he looks you up and down, eyes steady, like he's measuring you for a suit--or maybe for a coffin. Then, in that same calm, clinical voice, he asks, "Have you ever sucked cock before?"

The words crash into you, and for a second all the air is gone from the room. You're aware of your own heartbeat, the way your hands want to crawl under the table and hide.

You stammer, "Uh, no, I--I mean, I'm straight." It's the weakest protest, and you know it; he knows it too, because he doesn't even blink.

He leans against his desk, arms folded, and says, "What's that got to do with anything?"

There's no mockery in his tone, just a kind of practiced detachment, like he's heard every possible answer and pre-emptively dismissed them all.

"Do you think dicks care who's sucking them?" His mouth twitches, and you can't tell if it's a smirk or a tic of annoyance. "You're in a new job, a new city, but you're still afraid of getting categorized. Tell me, what category do you think that puts you in?"

You don't answer, because you can't. He seems to enjoy your discomfort, but it's not sadistic, exactly; it's more like he's taking inventory, cataloguing your hesitations for later.

He pushes: "You know, there's only two kinds of people in the world. Dominant, and submissive. Everything else is filler." He's closer now, almost between you and the door. "You keep telling me you're not interested. Fine. But you haven't left yet."

You try to muster outrage, or at least indignation, but nothing comes out. It's like your internal software is still buffering, waiting for a patch. Instead, you shift in your chair, and a nervous, involuntary laugh escapes. "I just--this is a lot, on the first day," you say.

He doesn't let it go. "I'm surprised. You've really never sucked a cock?" The question is pure challenge now, a gauntlet thrown at your feet. He narrows his eyes, expectant, as if he's waiting for you to blink or bolt.

You try to clarify, to push the word "straight" back into the conversation, but he cuts you off with a slow headshake.

"Labels are for people who need to hide," he says. "You don't strike me as a coward."

The room gets very quiet, except for the faint hum of his monitor. You realize, with a kind of horror, that you're waiting for him to tell you what's going to happen next.

He lets the silence build, then finally pushes off from the desk and steps even closer. His hand falls heavy on your shoulder--just a touch, but it feels like gravity itself has doubled. "You're going to be good at this," he says, as if it's already a foregone conclusion.

You are caught like a deer in headlights, unable to process the collision between what you want to believe about yourself and what's happening in this room. Every muscle tenses, but you don't move; you just sit there, your hands knotted together in your lap, feeling the blood surge to your face and then drain away again.

For a terrible, exhilarating moment you wonder if this is what prey animals feel: that split-second flash of paralysis that comes right before the jaws close around them.

He studies you with clinical amusement, as if watching a chemical reaction in a beaker.

"See?" he says, voice low, almost intimate. "You're not fighting. You're just waiting."

There's nothing predatory in his tone--no growl or sneer, just absolute certainty, the voice of someone who has never been told no. You try to summon a protest, even just the word "stop," but your mouth won't open. Instead, your jaw locks tight, your lips parting only enough to stammer a ragged breath.

You realize, with a kind of sick pride, that he's right: you aren't resisting, you're just holding perfectly, pathetically still. Why? Because you want this.

He reaches down with one enormous hand and, with a single casual tug, undoes his belt. The sound of the metal buckle, loud and deliberate, seems to echo off the glass walls and makes your heart hammer hard enough to hurt. He doesn't care that you're watching--he wants you to.

His hands move with practiced efficiency: zipper, button, waistband. Then, as if it were perfectly normal office protocol, he fishes himself out, fat and heavy and already thickening, the shaft pale against his fist.

You're not sure what you expected--a cartoonishly massive dick, maybe, something monstrous and inhuman? But it's even more shocking for being real: just a huge, regular dick, thick as your wrist and hanging down like a challenge. It's not even hard yet.

You can't look away, your eyes flicking from his cock to his face and back again, as if you're supposed to memorize this for later. The disparity between your own body and his is laughable; you feel like a child watching an adult perform some secret ritual. You swallow reflexively, Adam's apple bobbing so visibly that his grin widens.

"Go on," he says, nudging your knee with his. "Get a good look. It's not going to bite."

His free hand rests on your shoulder again, anchoring you in place, while the other strokes lazily at the length of his cock, coaxing it to full attention.

You feel a pulse in your own groin, humiliatingly involuntary, as if your body has short-circuited and switched allegiance without your permission.

You think about saying something, anything, but the words dissolve in your throat. Instead, all you can do is watch, heart pounding, as his cock grows even larger, the head blooming dark and slick at the tip.

Your own jeans are suddenly too tight, and you're terrified he can see just how hard you've gotten, how obvious your arousal is despite every rational objection your mind tries to raise.

He leans in close enough that you can feel his breath on your cheek, the scent of aftershave and sweat and something else, something animal.

"You know why I picked you?" he murmurs. "Because you look like you're waiting for orders."

He shifts his grip and suddenly, impossibly, the head of his cock is pressed against your lower lip, smearing a line of pre-cum across your mouth. Your eyes go wide, but you don't pull away. You don't even flinch.

"Open up," he says, gentle but implacable.

You hesitate for only a second, then do as you're told, because there's nothing else you can do.

The last thing you do of your own volition--if that phrase even means anything anymore--is nod, a tiny, jerky movement of your chin that feels less like agreement and more like a white flag, a surrender flashing up through all your circuitry.

There's a flicker of triumph in his eyes, the kind that comes from a hunter who knows the chase is over, and the next thing you know you're pushing yourself up from the chair, shuffling forward on unsteady knees. For a second, neither of you says anything, and then he tips his head, a wordless command that your body obeys before your mind can catch up.

You kneel. The carpet is rough on your shins. The angle is humiliatingly natural--like you already knew how to fold into this shape, for this reason.

His cock is hanging in your face, the tip glistening with a bead of clear fluid. Your heart pounds so loud you can feel it in your neck, in your teeth. You don't know what's expected, so you look up, helpless, for instruction, but he just waits. There's nothing in his eyes but expectation, boredom, the kind of relaxed focus that comes from doing something a thousand times before.

Your hands hover for a second, uncertain, and then you reach up, tentatively cupping the base of him with fingers that look comically small wrapped around something so thick. The skin is warm, almost feverish, and you can feel it swelling in your grip, the pulse of blood as it stiffens by degrees.

He doesn't moan--not yet--but there's the ghost of a pleased exhale. His knuckles flex against your scalp, a faint warning of the pressure to come.

You hesitate, trying to gather some kind of playbook from memory--do you go slow? Do you use your tongue? Are you supposed to gag, or is that a myth? But he's not patient.

One enormous hand finds the back of your head and pushes, gently but inexorably, guiding the blunt head of his cock against your mouth. You resist, but only for the fraction of a second before your lips part. The taste is pure salt, astringent and alien, and the weight of the head on your tongue is shocking. Your mouth is suddenly, uncomfortably full.

The first push is shallow, a test run. He slides in an inch, then two, the shaft heavy and unyielding, and you struggle not to gag as it presses insistently against your palate.

He draws back, smearing a trail across your lips, then pushes in again, deeper this time. You choke, the sound embarrassingly loud in the hush of the office, but he just tightens his hold and keeps going, feeding you another inch, then another.

It's a rhythm, now: a slow, measured, each stroke a little deeper than the last, until your nose is pressed against the dark thatch of his pubes and your throat is working desperately to accommodate him.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you don't pull away. You can't. You don't want to.

His fist on your hair is absolute, the pressure constant, and you realize dimly that he's holding you there, letting you squirm and suffocate until you stop fighting.

For a moment, you panic. Your hands claw at his thighs, and he laughs, low and mean.

"There you go," he says, "that's more like it."

He rocks his hips, fucking your mouth with increasing urgency, and you feel your own cock twitch in your jeans, leaking against the fabric despite the humiliation, despite the terror. You're not sure if you're more ashamed of the tears or the hard-on.

He withdraws, finally, letting you gasp and cough, strings of spit and pre-cum connecting your lips to the tip of his cock. You gulp air, shuddering, and look up again, hoping for mercy. But he just smears the head across your cheek, marking you, then lines it back up to your mouth.

"Open wider," he says, and you do. You're beyond resistance, beyond reason, the world narrowed to the taste of him and the ache in your jaw and the relentless grip in your hair.

He thrusts again, and this time you don't choke; you just lean into it, letting him use you, your whole body reduced to a wet, obedient conduit for someone else's pleasure.

He fucks your throat with terrifying, mechanical efficiency, reducing you to a drooling, red-faced mess. You barely notice the tears streaming down your cheeks, the snot mixing with spit, the way your own hips grind helplessly against the air.

There's no room for thought or memory or even shame--just the heat of him, the burn of your lungs, the total, abject surrender that comes from obedience.

He slows, eventually, his hips stuttering, and you feel the cock in your mouth thicken, twitch. He grunts, low and animal, and then the taste in your mouth goes sharp and bitter, thick jets of come painting the back of your throat.

You gag, swallowing automatically, and he holds you there, head jammed down until you're sure you'll suffocate. Only then does he pull out, letting the last dribble ooze over your tongue and down your chin.

You collapse onto your haunches, gasping, your mouth raw and your mind scrambled. He tucks himself away, business like, then crouches down to eye level and wipes your cheek with his thumb. The gesture is almost tender, if you didn't know better.

"See?" he says, voice calm and smug. "Knew you'd be good at it."

You try to get up--knees buckling, one hand pushing feebly against his thigh as if to say enough--but he just shakes his head, flattening your protest before it can bloom.

"You stay right there, champ," he rumbles, and you do as you are told.

You kneel, the raw carpet digging angry imprints into your skin, while he stands above you as if nothing remotely extraordinary has just occurred. The air smells like sweat and saline and something else you can't name, and behind the thick pulse in your head is the disorienting, unignorable realization: you did it.

You sucked his cock because he told you to, because he said "open up," and you just did. Whatever stories you'd told yourself about boundaries or integrity or even just plain old self-control--they're gone, dissolved and spat out like the taste of him still coating your tongue. You want to spit again, to clear your mouth, but you don't dare.

He offers he cock to you once again--half-soft now, but still monstrous, still marked by what you just did--and slides the tip across your lips.

"Don't go anywhere," he says, and there's a note of real amusement in his voice, like he's looking at a puppy who just learned to roll over.

The head leaves a glistening stripe on your chin, and before you can wipe it away, he presses your cheeks together with one hand, squishing your face into a wet, slack-mouthed "O." His thumb drags down, scrapes along your jaw, then traces the spit and come that's dribbled onto your neck. He seems to savour the mess, the evidence.

"Clean it off," he orders.

You blink, confused, and then realize what he means when he angles his cock straight at your lips. You lick him, tentative at first, then again, the taste now familiar and impossible to ignore. You hope for some sign of approval, a pat on the head or even a word, but he just stands above you, letting you do it, letting you see yourself in the glass wall's reflection: a grown man, on his knees, servicing his boss because that's what you're told to do.

He tucks himself back in, zips up with a perfunctory flick, then drops his hand to your hair one last time.

"You did alright," he says. "Better than most." You're not sure if he means it, or if it's just another part of the humiliation, but it stings in a way you can't analyse. The room feels smaller now, the glass walls less like windows and more like a cage.

"Here's how things are going to work from now on," he says, voice smooth as lacquer. "You drop everything and come running when I say. No excuses. No attitude. You do what you're told, and you don't waste my time." The cadence is business-like, as if he's reading out a new office procedure or a quarterly goal. "Understand?"

You nod, because of course you do, and because you can't imagine saying anything else.

"Good boy," he says, and you hate how your body responds to it, the hot twist low in your stomach. He lets you stand, finally, but as you fumble for your balance, he plants one hand firmly on your crotch, squeezing your erection through denim so roughly you almost yelp. You jerk back, face burning, but he doesn't let go.

"You got off on that, didn't you?" he says, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Not so straight after all."

You stammer, but the heat in your cheeks says more than words ever could. He gives you a final, almost affectionate pat, then steps back, allowing you to escape.

You leave the office on trembling legs, shirt untucked, lips tingling, and the echo of his laughter follows you all the way down the hall.