Hard For My Boss

by Daryl Banner

  “Alright, alright.” My roommate lets off his tough, pressing demeanor. “I get it. You can tell me later,” he adds in a whisper. “I’ll order some teriyaki wings from the local wingery. That oughta loosen your tongue.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I state aloud, “and ‘wingery’ isn’t a word.”

  “Sure it is.” He gives me another obnoxious nudge, chuckles, then adds, “You missed a spot,” with a poke at my belly before he returns to his work.

  I glance down and notice a tiny smudge of toner I must’ve missed when I went to clean myself up before the meeting. In a haze of questions and frustration, I make my way back across the office to the restroom. In the quiet, offensively fluorescent-lit tiled room, I stand in front of the mirror and quietly scrub the last bit of toner off my shirt. Unlike the rest which came off easily, this bit only seems to smear, much to my jaw-tightening chagrin.

  The door sweeps open suddenly. For some reason, I expect to see Brandon waltz in all smug and proud. But it’s not Brandon.

  It’s Ben.

  When the door closes, he just stands there, all six feet of him. His muscular shoulders fill that pinstriped white dress shirt. His sculpted pecs pull the thin fabric of his shirt across them as though the material was painted right on his body. His sleeves are rolled up slightly, giving a hint of his thick, muscled forearms. For some reason, I also happen to note how big his hands are.

  Maybe because I want them on me right now. Maybe because I regret cutting off our Friday night so abruptly. Maybe a part of me secretly wishes we had gone all the way, since I now realize that the opportunity will never arise again.

  Especially not in the office restroom. I turn away from him and face the mirror as I continue to scrub away, but now with more fervor than before.

  “Trevor.”

  In stark contrast to the dominant, powerful way in which he addressed me in the conference room, his voice is soft and sends a chill of sensitivity up my spine, feeling not unlike a pair of gentle, teasing fingertips tracing along my naked body. I feel goosebumps everywhere just from the sound of it.

  And then I instantly resent the tingly, sexy feeling. “What?” I shoot back rudely, not looking his way.

  He comes closer to the sink where I stand. The scent of his spicy cologne fills my nostrils. I fight an involuntary desire to drop against his meaty body, succumbing to the way he makes me feel when he’s in my presence.

  He’s like a mean, potent drug that talks to me.

  How cruel, when your addiction can talk to you and convince you to give in some more.

  “I know what you’re up to,” he says to me, low and gravelly, “and I’m telling you now, it won’t work.”

  I freeze. What the hell does he mean?

  “Yeah,” he goes on, nodding with conviction. “You think I’m not on to you and your plan? Seducing me Friday night? Gunning to get the boss under your thumb so you can … what? Get some special treatment? Get a promotion?”

  I drop my jaw. “I am not …” I can’t even look at him. I can barely make sentences. “I would never have—”

  “C’mon,” he cuts me off. “You knew your boss’s name. That’s my name. Surely you had seen pictures and knew what my face looked like, too.”

  Finally I face him, indignant. “Do you have any idea how you look online and how you look in the flesh? It’s not even the same person. Your online pics make you look like your own sanitized, imaginary uncle who owns a law firm in Connecticut. You don’t look a thing like …” I gesture my hand at his body, momentarily distracted by the way his shirt tapers perfectly to his form and disappears in his butt-hugging, thigh-squeezing slacks.

  An amused smirk crosses his face. “That so?”

  “Yeah!” I bite back. “You think I would actually …? You really thought I was trying to … to f-fuck my way to the top?” I can barely say the word.

  His piercing, sexy stare is the only answer I get.

  I scowl at him. “Then you don’t know me at all,” I spit back. “I was preparing all spring to be able to show off my skills to you. I wanted to work to impress you. I even studied your past clients! I’ve had my nose buried in books on marketing, on public relations and scandals and image …”

  I let go of my tie. There’s no way I’m going to get the stupid smudge out anyway. I’m stained permanently. And I won’t try to draw symbolism out of that right now; I’m too angry.

  “You expect me to believe that?” he presses on, stubborn.

  “I … Y-You just … You believe whatever you want to believe.” I’m stammering now. It’s just too distracting to try and keep up my anger in front of Ben when all I’m doing is flooding myself with desire the longer I keep my eyes on him.

  Control yourself! My heart is not racing because of how close he is to me. My legs are not squirming because of the blood flowing to my staff of destiny, which has to be conjuring up some kind of wicked, fiery dark magic down there, for all the inappropriate images racing past my eyes.

  His smirk not letting up any, Ben takes a step closer.

  I take a step back. It’s too overwhelming, being so close to him while wanting him this badly. I don’t trust myself. And clearly he doesn’t trust me. So why is he advancing on me still?

  He takes another step.

  My heels kick into the wall. My back presses flat against the cold tile.

  Ben towers over me—masculine, powerful, reeking of sex and hunger—and his eyes, smoldering.

  “Impress me?” he echoes tauntingly, practically sneering like a schoolyard bully. “You’re working to … impress me?”

  I don’t know why, but I find the mocking tone in his voice to be so hot. I’m always so uptight and in control every second of my life. Having him tear all of that down—and force his way straight into my horny, repressed, starved psyche—is almost more than I can take. I’m desperate with yearning for him.

  And I’m still angry at his accusation. Horny and angry is a deadly combination. “Yes,” I whisper.

  He doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls slowly with his firm, measured breathing. Ben is always in control.

  “You really didn’t know who I was?”

  I can only lift my chin halfway to him, unable to meet his eyes, for fear of what they’ll do to me. “No.”

  His muscled chest keeps rising, falling, rising, falling before my eyes. “Really?”

  “Really.” I lick my lips. “And … I think I still don’t.”

  “You still don’t,” he agrees. “But let me enlighten you, Trevor. I’m your boss. You’re my intern. There’s nothing more going on between us, and there won’t be.”

  “Nothing more going on between us,” I force myself to agree as I continue to stare hungrily at Ben. His arms shift ever slightly, and I revel in the creasing and pulling of his shirt fabric over his biceps. I have never been so hypnotized before by the simple way in which a man’s clothing fits so perfectly to his sculpted body. I see every inch of him in such tortuous detail.

  “Eyes up here,” he demands with a snap of his fingers.

  At once, I flick my eyes to his, then cower under the weight of his magnificent, steely gaze.

  Yeah, he seriously just snapped his fingers at me—like I’m his new obedient dog, trained and housebroken.

  “Professional,” Ben states for a reminder in that firm yet silky voice of his.

  And all the while, I’m leaking pre-cum like no one’s business in my fast tightening underwear. It is official. I feel it. My cock throbs, wet, and my breath quickens, and my eyes are trained.

  “Boss,” he states, lifting one of his big fingers and pointing to his massive chest. Then he moves his finger to my chest, poking me with enough force to pin me to the wall if I wasn’t pinned here already. “Intern.”

  He really knows how to put a boy in his place. “Understood.”

  After lingering for far too long on my chest, he finally drops his hand. I wait for him to turn away and leave me to finish up i
n the restroom, or perhaps to give me a big long spiel on the grave importance of keeping it appropriate in the workplace, or how he still thinks I knew who he was Friday night and just wanted to fuck my way to the top.

  Instead, he grabs me by the tie and yanks me into his face, then plants his firm, wet lips on mine.

  12

  Benjamin takes a bathroom break.

  I work Trevor’s mouth powerfully and without relent.

  My hands grope him everywhere without a single reservation. I slide my hands behind his back, holding him against me like my possession. I consume his lips as if I’m never going to have this chance to taste Trevor again.

  And he doesn’t hold back either. I feel his grip strengthen as he claws down my back. He cups my ass greedily, then moans when our hips press firmly together, our mutually hardened cocks throbbing at each other, a contest.

  Our lips separate long enough for him to say, “We shouldn’t do this. We shouldn’t be doing any of this. This is wrong.”

  “Really wrong,” I agree.

  And then our mouths crash together again.

  He tastes sweet and sugary, and I can’t get enough as I move a hand up to the back of his head to pull him against me stronger, as if there’s any way I can possibly kiss him harder. My mouth aches in the space of seconds as I express more fervently by the second my desire for him.

  Anyone could walk into this restroom. Anyone could pull open that door right now, and there would be no way for either of us to separate or catch our breaths fast enough. We’d be caught, gossiped about, and exposed to the whole office.

  I clean up scandals for a living. I’d have one of my own.

  I know exactly what could happen, since I’ve seen it happen to countless other celebrities over the past several years. Do I really want to risk it? And for what? The delicious taste of this boy I barely know in my arms? This boy who might or might not have known exactly who I was at the nightclub?

  Not just any intern …

  Regardless of the reason I’m trying to appeal to in my mind, I just can’t stop.

  I’m unstoppable.

  Suddenly we’re off the wall, stumbling across the room and spilling into one of the stalls, its door slamming shut and locking behind us. I don’t know whether it was my feet that led us into here or his, but our mouths never disconnect.

  I slam him against the back of the door, pressing my weight into him as we kiss. I don’t give him a second to catch his breath.

  I grip his hand and thrust it to the front of my pants, showing him how hard I am for him. His eyes flash wide open, and then the message is received. He fumbles for my pant button. When it pops open, he wastes no time in pulling down the zipper too. I sigh with relief when my hardened bulge, encased in the thin blue microfiber of my boxer-briefs, spills out.

  He cups it greedily, then pulls away from my mouth and glances down, as if surprised. Trevor seems to make a discovery.

  “Told you it’s big,” I grunt at him.

  He looks up at me with wide eyes. I can’t tell if it’s thrill or fear I see in them.

  Suddenly, the dreaded sound we were likely both hoping we’d not hear echoes around us: the restroom door opening. We stand perfectly still while staring into each other’s stony faces.

  Now I see fear in his eyes.

  There’s the sound of a zipper unzipping. Then a soft sigh. And then: pee.

  I bite the inside of my lip. Trevor wrinkles his face, annoyed.

  We wait. And we listen. And we still don’t move.

  The guy keeps peeing.

  Like, literally, this guy pees forever.

  Trevor lifts an eyebrow at me, as if wondering whether I have some kind of plan, or if he’s expecting me to do something. What the hell does he want me to do? Am I supposed to march out there and demand that the man stop peeing so that I can continue doing very inappropriate things with one of my interns?

  Then the peeing stops.

  Thank God.

  And then it resumes.

  I gape at Trevor and mouth the words, “Oh my God,” to him. Trevor fights a smile, straightens his face, then looks away with his face burning red.

  By the way, his hand is totally still cupping my junk.

  Well, there’s really no reason to stop the party, is there? I bring a finger to the bottom of his chin and give it a strong push, directing his attention right back to me. I nod down at my cock. “Get to work,” I mouth at him.

  He parts his lips, shuts them, then parts them again. “Now??” he mouths back at me.

  I grab his hand and proceed to guide him in massaging my swollen cock. Trevor’s mouth hangs open as he starts to follow my lead, kneading my tool muscularly with his whole hand. I bite my lip and grin, suppressing the moan in my throat.

  Meanwhile, the peeing miniseries is still going on.

  Trevor’s eyes snap to mine. “The hell did this dude drink?” he mouths at me, half-whispering now.

  I shrug. “I should really revise my strict break schedule for my loyal employees, the poor things,” I return in a whisper. “You stopped.”

  “Sorry,” he mouths, then continues to knead my crotch.

  It feels so good that my eyes rock back. His hand starts to pick up pace as he massages me. Soon, he begins a stroking motion, his smooth palm running up and down the length of my cock, still encased in the thin, tight fabric. This underwear is so thin, I might as well not be wearing any at all; I feel every glide, twitch, and squeeze of his fingers as though he were stroking my cock itself. If only he was brave enough to pull it out …

  I bite my lip and lean my head against his shoulder, a deep growl issuing from my throat when his innocent stroking grows in strength and speed. His breath crashes against my ear. His free hand strokes my side, groping its way across my muscle toward my backside, encouraging me.

  Suddenly, I want to tear open his clothes and retaliate by making him as crazy as he’s making me right now. Why should I be the only one to suffer?

  The peeing stops almost abruptly, which causes us both to freeze. The whole restroom is suddenly twice as silent as it ought to be without even a bit of evidence that the other guy is still there. The tiles make this room echoey. Did he hear us? Can he see our feet? The stalls are separated by actual walls with only the door giving half a foot of visibility at the ground and coming up seven feet to nearly touch the ceiling with no way to peek over the door unless you happen to be in the NBA.

  Trevor is clinging to me tightly now as we stand perfectly still so as not to alert our friendly bathroom mate of our existence. His grip on my cock through the thin, slippery material of my boxer-briefs has gotten so tight, I feel my own pulse throbbing into his palm. I lift my head from his shoulder, licking my lips slowly as I stare down at Trevor, suddenly finding myself more turned on than freaked out by this situation we’re caught in.

  Then, mercifully, the sound of a flushing urinal fills the room, I hear footsteps, and then the sink turns on.

  Trevor’s eyes show relief as his nervous vice-tight grip on my cock relaxes. By reflex, I reach around and grab one of his butt cheeks, filling my hand. Trevor lifts his eyebrows in surprise as I give it a hearty squeeze, smiling devilishly down on him.

  When the sink cuts off and the crinkle of a paper towel is heard, the man at last speaks. “Dude, is that you?”

  We freeze again. Trevor stares into my eyes. I stare into his.

  “Trevor. Seriously. I recognize your shoes. I helped you pick them out. Oh. And … someone else’s shoes.”

  Trevor’s mouth parts. Terror strikes his eyes.

  “I get it. Sorry.” The man chuckles. “Already moving on after that random rich prick from Friday night, huh?”

  I smirk at Trevor. He shrinks, his face burning red and his lips scrunching up with frustration. “Rich prick?” I mouth at him, to which he just rolls his eyes and looks away.

  “No problem,” the man goes on. “I’ll let you boys have your fun. But y’know, if the boss ma
n catches you two in there messing around, he’s gonna have your asses.”

  A paper ball slaps into the trash bin. Footsteps. Door opens, door closes. Then, silence.

  I smirk at Trevor. “You heard him,” I tease. “Boss man’s gonna have your ass.”

  Trevor’s face darkens, an unexpected flicker of anger chasing across his eyes. At once, he pulls his hand away from my crotch and starts smoothing out his tie, which I’d pulled loose when I yanked him into me before.

  “Hey.” I try to stop him. He swipes my hands away. “What’s the problem? I don’t hear the boss man coming.”

  “Boss man’s right here. And that’s the problem.” Trevor eyes me with severity. “This may be some big joke to you, but this is my career you’re toying around with, and—”

  “I’m not toying with anything,” I insist innocently. “You were the one toying with my cock, to be fair.”

  He rolls his eyes and pushes out of the stall door, unimpressed with my humor.

  Of course that only eggs me on worse. “You have a great grip, by the way.”

  “Wasn’t much to grip,” he shoots back.

  I grin. Now he’s really egging me on. “Maybe you need another grip to remind yourself, intern. I doubt you can wrap your whole hand around it.”

  He ignores my taunt. “I’m going to go out there and … and just do my job,” he states calmly. “What happened between us after the nightclub was just a passing, nothing … thing. We’re in a new setting here—”

  “Never done it in a restroom,” I confess with a light nod.

  “Do you take anything seriously??” he half-growls. “I meant in the new setting of the office, and therefore, we have rules.”

  “Rules?”

  “Yes. And you laid them out already.” He points at me. “Boss.” He points at himself. “Intern. That’s the beginning and the end of this. I don’t want any special treatment. And I don’t want any … not special treatment, either. Or whatever.” He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, his face flushing. “I just … just want to be another one of your employees. Nothing more, nothing less.” He flaps his eyes open and stares somewhere in the vicinity of my knees.