by J. M. Snyder
Mitch grinned as he complied.
* * * *
For a long moment, Daryl knelt on either side of Mitch’s legs and savored the view—his ass presented to Daryl almost on a platter, his hard cock flush against the cushion, his balls just peeking between his legs. Daryl took the well-used bottle of warming oil and squirted what little remained in his palms, then tossed the bottle aside to rub his palms together.
Rising up on his knees, he cupped Mitch’s buttocks in both hands and massaged the cheeks up, apart. With each lift, he leaned in closer, letting his stiff dick butt up against Mitch’s backside. His fingers created a slick trail down the center of Mitch’s ass, and the next time he leaned forward, his cock slid along the oiled flesh like two gears in a machine.
“Yes,” Mitch gasped, his voice muffled. “Fuck me, Daryl. Fuck me!”
Tempting, but not yet. Daryl situated himself so his dick was between Mitch’s cheeks and he thrust his hips forward, letting his hands drop down over the curve of Mitch’s back. His fingers kneaded his lover’s muscles as his balls tapped gently at Mitch’s anus.
It seemed maddening to Mitch. “God! What are you waiting for?” he cried, turning to look over his shoulder at Daryl. He wriggled his hips in an attempt to get Daryl to enter him. “You’re driving me crazy! We never take this long at home.”
“You paid for an hour,” Daryl reminded him.
“I’ve been horny for you forever,” Mitch said. “Fuck me, will you?”
Daryl’s hands rubbed back up to Mitch’s ass, then down the crack between his buttocks, until they found the pinched hole Mitch clenched in his need. “Yes, yes,” Mitch sighed.
Separating Mitch’s cheeks, Daryl rimmed his lover’s sweet spot with both thumbs. As oiled as they were, it didn’t take long before one slipped inside.
“Yes!” Mitch cried. “Please, please, please…”
Daryl could only imagine what anyone passing by might think if they overheard Mitch’s plea. His thumbs dipped in, taking turns as he stretched Mitch’s tight hole. It loosened, widened, and Mitch arched his back, his muscles flexing as he tried to draw Daryl in. “Please, please,” he sighed, a mantra Daryl could no longer resist.
Positioning himself behind his lover, Daryl leaned forward over Mitch’s back and guided his cock into place.
“Oh God, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes!”
Mitch’s words tumbled out in a rush as Daryl’s dick filled him easily. Daryl felt his lover come in a hot rush, a quick release after the long build-up, but he wasn’t finished yet. He took his time, thrusting in as far as he could go, waiting a moment or two, then pulling back until he was almost completely free before shoving himself in again, harder and deeper but languid, precise movements guaranteed to bring Mitch back to the brink of orgasm. With his hands, he kneaded Mitch’s back and shoulders, and when his lover turned his head, Daryl drove deep into his ass and leaned forward to claim a lingering kiss.
“Yes,” Mitch moaned. Now it was Mitch’s muscles working Daryl and not the other way around, tightening along his cock, holding him when he tried to pull back, opening to him when he thrust in. As the slow rhythm of their lovemaking picked up, it was Mitch who urged Daryl on, harder, deeper, faster, in, in, in.
Daryl picked up on Mitch’s direction and steadied his hands on Mitch’s hips as he thrust into his lover. Mitch urged him on, each “yes” and “God” and “uh uh uh” adding fuel to the fire of Daryl’s lust, fanning his desire. His pace quickened, he gave one final thrust, then stayed there as he worked his hips in a circular motion, screwing himself in as far as he could go. His cock pummeled Mitch’s prostate, sending his lover into a paroxysm of nonsensical words. Then his climax ripped through him and spurted into Mitch, triggering a second orgasm from his lover.
* * * *
Mitch pulled the wedge cushion out from under him and tossed it to the floor. Then he lay down again, muscles tight around Daryl’s wilting member. On top, Daryl lay down and repositioned himself until he was comfortable, his arms laced under Mitch’s, his hands folded on the nape of Mitch’s neck.
Feeling his lover’s welcome weight above him, Mitch sighed, content. “I could lay like this the rest of the day,” he admitted.
Daryl kissed the back of his ear. “Me too, but I have another client scheduled in fifteen minutes.”
Mitch turned his head to grin up at Daryl. “I hope that client isn’t signed up for the same massage I got,” he teased.
“This was a special order, just for you.” Daryl kissed the tip of Mitch’s nose and whispered. “I probably didn’t manage to convince you most massages don’t end with sex, did I?”
“I know.” Mitch tucked his arms under him and held out his hands for Daryl’s. They clasped together, complete. “I trust you, I do. And I’m sure glad you paid off Erin, because I wouldn’t have enjoyed my first real massage quite as much if anyone else did it but you.”
“I love you,” Daryl purred. Kissing Mitch’s neck, he added, “Maybe, when I get home from work tonight, you can show me what it is you do on the job.”
With a frown, Mitch asked, “What do you mean?”
Daryl’s mouth was warm on Mitch’s skin. “I’m thinking full state trooper uniform,” he murmured, “handcuffs, that nightstick of yours…that might be fun.”
Mitch had to agree, it might. Why they’d never thought of it before, he didn’t know. Hugging Daryl’s hands against his chest, he kissed his lover’s knuckles and promised, “It’s a date.”
THE END
Yes-Man
Monday morning, 5:45 A.M.
The moment the alarm clock buzzes, Bryce Howerton is up, turning it off before the sound can wake his lover still slumbering beside him. Despite the early hour, Bryce is wide awake, his mind already reeling off the things he has on his schedule today.
Two interviews this morning for customer service reps, he thinks, carefully slipping out of Tim’s arms to stand beside the bed they share. He stretches his arms to the darkened ceiling above, feeling his muscles come alive all along his bare torso. The files should be waiting for me on Alecia’s desk when I get in, I can look them over then. Need to have Alecia call the coffee service, see if they can restock before tomorrow’s staff meeting. Phone meeting with the Japanese rep at one this afternoon. I’ll have to read through the account when I get a chance and review it with Eckhart over lunch. It’ll have to be over lunch because we have an eleven o’clock conference…
He glances at the clock—a minute has passed, and already the weight of the day is beginning to sink down on him. When he left the office yesterday, he’d forgotten about the phone call today, so he didn’t get the account files in order, which means he’ll have to rush to do that between the interviews this morning. Or get Alecia to do it for me, he muses as he pads barefoot into the bathroom. He waits until he closes the door behind him before turning on the light so he doesn’t wake up Tim.
Yes, he’d definitely get Alecia to work on the Japan account while he’s in the interviews. He’s probably the only executive assistant with his own secretary, but some days, he doesn’t know what he’d do without her.
Eckhart feels the same way about me.
The thought makes him smile at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Actually, no. He’s pretty sure he’d never feel for Alecia the way he knows his boss feels for him. Sure, she takes his calls, juggles his calendar, and maintains his files, all the same things he does for Eckhart, but there are things in his job description that separate his position from hers. There’s a reason his business cards say executive and hers simply say administrative. She does the paperwork, while he…well, he does everything else.
There’s a reason Eckhart calls Bryce his “yes-man.”
* * * *
By the time he’s showered and dressed, Tim is just beginning to rouse. Bryce pauses to plant a quick kiss on his lover’s forehead and whispers, “See you soon.”
“Drive safe,” Tim mutters sleepily.
&n
bsp; With a grin, Bryce lands his next kiss on Tim’s lips. “Yes, sir. Don’t go back to bed.”
Wearily Tim waves him away. “Yeah, yeah, I’m up.”
As he heads for the door, Bryce calls over his shoulder, “I’m going to call you in ten minutes to make sure.”
Though they both work downtown, they don’t share the commute. Bryce likes to get to the office before anyone else; he’s the first one every morning, unlocking the door and disabling the alarm system a good half hour before anyone else shows up. Some days that quiet time between seven thirty and eight is his only chance to think.
Today he makes the last of the coffee and leaves a note on Alecia’s desk about calling the service. There, on the corner of her desk, are the files for the incoming interviewees, right where he expected to find them. While the java brews, filling the office with a warm, rich scent, he flips through the files, familiarizing himself with the potential new hires.
Eckhart Incorporated is a logistics firm specializing in moving high tech products to influential clients around the world. They don’t just ship computers; no, they ship whole information systems worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, mostly to universities and governments who can afford their services. A typical order may include two or three onsite servers, twenty or thirty personal desktop computers, twice as many laptops and tablets, and the software needed to integrate everything together. They include installation and setup, too, and provide round the clock customer support. Unlike other companies that do what they do, Eckhart insists on support run out of their Richmond, Virginia, office, which costs much more than farming it out to subsidiaries in places like India or China. But their clients appreciate the extra effort, and their billing department pads the invoices to recoup the cost.
The two interviews Bryce has scheduled are to fill representative positions. Customer service has a high turnover rate—no one wants to be a customer service rep when they grow up. No one wants to be an executive assistant, either, he tells himself, suppressing a grin. Most exec assistants probably don’t do what it is he does that makes him so great at his job, though. That makes him indispensable, as far as Eckhart’s concerned.
When the coffee’s ready, Bryce pours himself a cup and stirs in a packet of sugar. Both candidates look good on paper, but he’s had that happen before. This is the second interview for both, though. Alecia culls the resumes when they arrive, then interviews the ones that show promise, and only passes on the really good ones to Bryce if she thinks they might be a good fit. Still, he feels as if he shouldn’t be so hands-on when it comes to the reps. Most don’t stay more than six months, tops. Maybe they should hire a hiring manager to do the interviews, instead, and leave Bryce free to focus on everything else he has to get done.
Like prepping the account for Eckhart’s afternoon call. He should do it now, while he has the chance, because once the rest of the office arrives, he’ll be too busy to get anything done. The interviews, then the conference with his boss at eleven. Damn.
Why’s it feel like the day’s already slipping away from him when it hasn’t even begun?
* * * *
Bryce remembers when he interviewed for his position. Alecia was Eckhart’s secretary then, and she was his initial contact with the firm, much the same way she still is for new hires. But Eckhart wanted a more personal assistant, someone whose job wasn’t as widespread as hers is—someone dedicated to him alone. A “yes-man,” was how Alecia put it in the first interview. Was Bryce comfortable taking on such a direct support role for the owner of the company?
He was.
There was a second interview, also with Alecia, and it included a tour of the facility, at which time Bryce met Eckhart for the first time. Surprisingly, the president of Eckhart Incorporated wasn’t that much older than himself, but tall and distinguished-looking, with an aura of distain that made Bryce feel shabby by comparison. At one point, for some reason, Alecia slipped away, leaving the two men alone together, and Mr. Eckhart’s polite questions turned personal.
“So, married?” he’d asked, raising a dark eyebrow already beginning to silver.
Bryce shook his head nervously before he remembered his manners. “No, sir. You might say I’m not the marrying type.”
Both eyebrows shot up at that. Eckhart’s white skin was so pale, it seemed almost translucent in places, and he was so ruggedly handsome, Bryce couldn’t look at him too long without staring. So he concentrated on the faint veins running just under that alabaster flesh, and only snuck peeks at those deep, stormy eyes. The overall impression he had of the man was blue: blue-tinged skin, dark blue eyes, a lighter blue suit with thin blue stripes, and a blue-black tie like a bruise tied up under his chin. Always was my favorite color, Bryce thought, shifting on one foot away from Eckhart in an attempt to hide a sudden erection. Could he really work for this man? He’d be hard all day long.
Like that’s a bad thing.
The faintest hint of a smile teased across Eckhart’s face. “Anyone serious, then? I ask only because this position will require someone who can devote himself entirely to the company. To me.”
“No one,” Bryce admitted. Then, because he was afraid that might sound desperate or sad, he added, “Don’t worry, sir. I would be a hundred percent dedicated to my work. I’m looking for a career I can retire from, not just a paycheck for a few years like some people. I doubt you’ll find anyone who can be more devoted than me.”
As Alecia came up to them again, Eckhart nodded and excused himself. Bryce wasn’t sure he’d made much of an impression on the man—how many other candidates had had similar conversations with Eckhart? How many were being considered for the same position? He didn’t know.
When the tour was over, and Alecia walked him to the front door of the office, he dared to ask, “So what happens next?”
“Next Mr. Eckhart interviews you himself.” She flashed him a bright smile that lit up her face. Combined with the dyed black hair she wore in a long Betty Page flip and the heavy green and blue eye makeup that was more appropriate for a nightclub than an office, the smile conspired to make her look impossibly young. “I’ll call you with the time after he’s had a chance to check his calendar.”
Bryce gave a nervous laugh. “I bet he hates clearing his scheduling for everyone he has to talk with about the position.”
“Oh no,” she assured him. “At this point, you’re the only one left standing. Mr. Eckhart didn’t bother with any of the others.”
Bryce’s next laugh felt much more relaxed. “So you’re telling me I’ve basically got the job?”
“You have to meet with him one on one first,” she said. “Then we’ll see.”
She called while he was on his way home and set a meeting with Mr. Eckhart for one o’clock the next afternoon. Bryce arrived early, as he had for the other two interviews, and waited in the empty reception area until Eckhart paged Alecia and asked her to send Bryce back. He checked his watch—one on the dot. Mr. Eckhart wasn’t the type to let someone sit around waiting on him. Bryce liked that.
The boss’s office was so completely unlike everything else Bryce had seen while touring the firm that, at first, he was taken aback. No white walls or linoleum tiles like in the cubicle farm on the other side of Mr. Eckhart’s door, no. His office had plush carpeting that seemed to swallow the bottoms of Bryce’s shoes, and dark wooden panels on the walls that made the large space seem intimate and cozy somehow. An executive desk was tucked in one corner almost as an afterthought; the center of the room was dominated by a pair of sleek, black, leather sofas tastefully arranged around a glass coffee table. Instead of bookcases, cabinets lined the walls; the doors rolled back into the units in a modern way of economizing the space, and several were opened to show shelves housing a few knickknacks obviously chosen for appearances—artsy books, lead crystal awards used as bookends, miniature globes. Bryce suspected behind one of the closed cabinets had to be an executive dry bar, hidden from view. He wondered what might be behind t
he others.
Mr. Eckhart met Bryce at the doorway, then ushered him inside the office, closing the door softly behind them. Indicating the nearest leather sofa, he told Bryce, “Please, Mr. Howerton. Have a seat.”
“Thank you for seeing me.” Bryce perched on the edge of the cushion, not quite sure how soft the sofa might be and unwilling to fall back into it. That wouldn’t make a good impression.
Mr. Eckhart sat on the opposite sofa and flashed Bryce a warm grin. Again Bryce thought how attractive the man was, and knew working for him would be a turn on. He’d probably spend a good amount of time in the executive bathroom jerking off to fantasies of what he could do to this sexy gentleman across from him…
Wait, was there an executive bathroom? Would he have access to it, being Mr. Eckhart’s assistant? He hoped so. He’d hate to be rushed getting off in a public stall.
You’re here about a job, he thought, chastising himself. Stop thinking about sex.
As if he could read Bryce’s sordid mind, Mr. Eckhart’s grin widened and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. In a soft voice, he asked, “Mr. Howerton, do you know why you’re here?”
Bryce cleared his throat. If only he could clear away his thoughts as easily. “Your secretary said something about a final interview…”
“Do you know how many potential candidates for your position have made it this far?” Mr. Eckhart asked.
Your position. Bryce liked the sound of that. “Not many,” he guessed.
Mr. Eckhart arched one eyebrow. “Until today? None.”
Before he could stop himself, Bryce said, “So I’m your first.”
Stupid! How did that not sound sexual?
Mr. Eckhart’s grin twisted into a smirk. “Hardly. Do you know why you’re really here?”
Bryce wasn’t sure. Tentatively, he asked, “This is about a job, right?”
The only response he received was the slightest nod.