Bro-ey Coworkers Like to Use My Mouth When We Work Late 03: Office Celebrations (Patreon)

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Chapter 3: Office Celebrations

Monday morning I caught Curtis and Jeff huddled over coffee in our little kitchenette, keeping their voices down.

"Was he actually on anything, though?" Curtis was saying. "Because I watched him in that bathroom and he didn't do one bump. He just wants everybody thinking he's unhinged."

"No idea, bro. I don't remember anything from that night. Nothing. Total blackout."

"Bullshit," Curtis said. "Your memory worked fine when you were unloading on the intern's face."

"He's not an intern, he's full time."

"So you do remember."

"No."

Jeff spotted me coming in for my mug and shut his mouth so fast his teeth clicked.

He was weird with me after that. He said "morning" at my desk without lifting his eyes from his monitor, and when he needed a file he focused his eyes on a spot over my shoulder. But twice, walking back from the printer, I turned quickly enough to catch him staring directly at my ass, and both times his eyes snapped back to his screen too late.

····[]···· 

I was carrying a stack back from the printer when I caught two coworkers whispering over a cube wall.

“Dude, I heard Layton Johns is on his way down,” one of them said. “The big swinging dick himself.”

I swallowed and sat back down at my desk, hoping it was about the account we had won. 

Layton Johns ran the whole division from a corner office upstairs, an older guy, late forties. He was known for being calm and focused, his salt and pepper hair combed straight back, his jaw square, his face handsome enough that the admins perked up whenever he came down from his corner office. His arms filled out his suit sleeves, and the suits themselves looked wildly expensive, the fabric alone probably worth my signing bonus. People around the firm called him the "big swinging dick".

I had seen him in person maybe twice, only in passing.

He stopped at my desk. Heads popped up over the cube walls like prairie dogs.

"This is the new guy?" he asked Ethan, who had appeared behind me.

"That's him. He built the whole model. And he sold it directly to the client. I checked his work his first month and stopped bothering after that."

The boss stuck his hand out and shook mine firmly, one hard pump that moved my whole arm, his gold watch flashing under the fluorescents. 

"So you're the guy who told the client their own numbers were wrong," he said. His voice was loud and deep and carried clear over the cube walls, so the entire floor heard exactly why the deal closed. Around us the keyboards slowed to a stutter, everyone pretending to type as they listened. 

"First year out of school, walking into that room. The balls on you, kid."

"Thank you, sir," I said.

"Don't thank me, I didn't build the model." He still had my hand in his grip, pumping it once more. "This division runs on guys who swing like that. It's just what we need. Big balls."

"Keep him close," he told Ethan as he reached over me to hand a thick stack of envelopes to him, and headed back toward the elevators.

Ethan worked his way around the cubes handing out the envelopes, each one with a name printed on the front. He plopped mine down on my desk and winked at me before moving on. I tore it open. 

Inside was a fancy printed letter on company letterhead, the logo up top and Layton's signature at the bottom in real ink. "On behalf of the entire division, I want to recognize the exceptional effort behind this win," it opened, and from there it rolled through the boilerplate, "our unwavering commitment to excellence," "the standard of work we expect from every member of this team," sentences some lawyer had signed off on. Buried in the second paragraph sat the sentence that mattered: "In recognition of your individual contribution, you have been awarded a discretionary spot bonus in the amount of $50,000." I read it three times before it sank in. Fifty thousand dollars, on top of my end-of-year bonus. My thumb left a damp print on the thick paper.

We had all gotten spot bonuses. I heard people comparing over the cube walls, waving their envelopes around. Some got 10k, some 15k. Even guys who hadn't touched this account got something, and they were all pretty thrilled. I kept mine to myself, as my ego jumped straight through the ceiling. Ethan put a hand on my shoulder, congratulating me silently, while others in the area gave me a thumbs up, or nodded, general smiles all around.

There was a handwritten note on mine, after the typed letter, from Layton himself, blue ink slanting under the printed letter: Thanks again, keep it up. And then underneath it, the pen dug deeper: 

This company runs on big balls. 

I started to wonder if he literally thought my balls were big.

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I spent the rest of that day typing aimlessly into a spreadsheet, filling cells with numbers that meant nothing, my knee bouncing under the desk. I couldn't focus at all. Every few minutes I slid the letter halfway out of its envelope to look at the blue ink, and slid it back in before anyone could walk by and catch me grinning at it.

The next morning there were rumors that Ethan was about to land another huge account, and the buzz of the previous day's bonus had faded into the chatter of this new "opportunity". He called me into his office, his sleeves rolled up over his big forearms, his blonde hair damp, probably from the gym. He pointed me into the chair across from his desk.

"You heard about the Brighton deal?"

"Just whispers."

"Well, it's real, and I'm sharing this one with you," he said. "You're ready to rise to my level."

My ego was still buzzing from the letter, and now this. 

"Your bonus on this project alone will be over 100k, assuming we pull it off," Ethan said, leaning back until his chair creaked under his big frame. 

"We're up against CSC and CC&E on this." I had learned the alphabet soup already, and I knew both firms, sharks with older money and deeper benches than ours. My knee started bouncing again under his desk. 

"We're gonna slay this," I said. He smiled and slid a thick folder across to me, heavier than I expected, "Confidential" stamped across the front. 

"Now fuck off," he said, reaching for his phone. "I have a lot of calls to make before lunch."

"Let me know how I can help."

"It's on the cal already," he said.

I narrowed my eyes, confused, but he tapped his cell and waved me off. "Hello, Mr. Stryder, how's the knee?" I closed the door.

Back at my desk I checked my calendar, and sure enough, he had dropped a short meeting on it for noon, a slot so small I almost scrolled past it. “Knowledge Transfer Sync,” it read, the bland label we used for anything that needed a debrief, boring enough that nobody would ever question it. What he still had to "transfer" after handing me the whole folder, I had no idea. It sat right on top of my lunch meeting, which meant he hadn’t even glanced at my availability, or he didn't care. I moved the lunch.

····[]····

At noon I sat at my desk with one airpod pulled out, waiting for him to either call me on google meets or else yell for me across the room, when a hand suddenly tapped my shoulder. Ethan stood over me in just his shirt, no jacket, his sleeves rolled up over his big forearms. He grabbed my arm and hauled me up out of my chair before I could ask what happened to the call, and he steered me down the hall quickly, past the conference rooms, through a stairwell door I had never once opened. We climbed two flights, our dress shoes echoing up the concrete.

He pushed through a door at the top and we came out onto an abandoned section of the building, a half-renovated floor with bare desks shoved against one wall and plastic sheeting taped up, adding to the in-progress vibe of the room. Nobody worked up here. Floor to ceiling glass ran along two sides, and the views stopped me for a second, the Chrysler Building shining in midtown and One World Trade Center standing over everything downtown.

"Nice view," I said.

"Not yet," Ethan said behind me as I heard the lock click. Ethan leaned back against the door and grabbed his bulge through his slacks, squeezing it slowly.

"Time to thank me for recommending you," he said.

"You have this backwards, bro," I said, already crossing the room to him. "This isn't a thank-you. This is my second spot bonus of the week."

He had my belt open before I finished crossing the room, and we stripped each other bare right there, our shirts and slacks piled on an empty desk, his big dick already standing firm against his hard abs. Mine matched it. He walked me to the glass and turned me to face the city, my palms flat on the window, the whole of midtown laid out under my hands.

He had a little bottle of lube in his slacks, prepared as always, and he greased himself up behind me. His head found my hole and squeezed me open in one long push, the stretch burning and then melting the deeper he sank, until his hips pressed flat against my cheeks and I moaned at the Chrysler Building.

"You like getting fucked at work?" he said into my ear, kissing down the side of my neck while our bodies started slapping together.

"Apparently," I breathed onto the glass, fogging it.

He pulled out of me without warning, his dick dragging out of my stretched hole, and before I could complain he gripped my shoulder and pushed me straight down onto my knees facing him. His dick bobbed in front of my face, and he dragged his palm down the shaft to wipe off the lube before he fed it between my lips, my knees barely settled on the floor. I tasted the lube and I tasted myself on him, and I sucked it, deeply, my hands braced on his thick thighs. 

He fucked my mouth in slow pumps, one hand cupping the back of my head, watching me work from above.

"You taste that?" he said. "That's your own ass on my dick, bro. And you're still rock hard."

I hummed around him and he twitched against my tongue, his abs flexing over my face.

"Yeah, you love it. Greediest mouth in the whole city." He sank in another slow inch, until my nose grazed his stomach and my eyes watered, and I gripped his thighs and took it. "Ethan's little deal closer."

He pulled out of my mouth with a wet pop, a string of spit snapping between my lip and his head, and he hoisted me up by my armpits before my knees even registered leaving the floor. He spun me back toward the city and walked me forward until my palms slapped flat on the glass, my prints still fogged there from the first round.

"Can't decide which hole I like better," he said behind me, dragging his dickhead down between my cheeks, nudging at my entrance, still slippery with lube. "Good thing they both belong to me."

He pressed in, and my stretched hole barely argued this time, his whole length gliding back into me in one long stroke until his hips sat flush against my ass, and I groaned, looking at midtown.

"Your mouth was just keeping it warm," he said into my ear.

He crouched behind me, hooked his forearms under my knees, and lifted me completely off the floor, my back flat against his chest, my legs pinned up and open toward the skyline. I faced the city as he impressively bounced me on his dick in midair, gravity dropping me onto him with every stroke in some sort of reverse-cowgirl-in-space invention of his. I stared out at One World Trade with my mouth hanging open, getting stuffed above an entire city that could watch if they had binoculars.

My thighs had started trembling where his forearms held them, and he eased me down one leg at a time, his dick still buried in me while my feet searched for the floor. 

"You feel that?" he said into my ear, grinding up into me once while he held me steady against his chest. "Whole city under you and you're full of my dick. Best view in Manhattan." 

He pulled out of me slowly, dragging every inch through my stretched hole, and I whimpered at the empty feeling, which made him laugh behind me. 

"Needy little hole," he said. "Relax, it's going back in. But first you're gonna earn it." 

He turned me around by my shoulders, kissed me once, hard and sloppy, then stepped past me to the window. He bent forward and braced his forearms on the glass, arching his thick ass out at me, looking back over his shoulder. 

"Eat my ass," he said. "Get your tongue in deep, bro. Show the city what a slut I hired."

 I knelt down behind him, and his ass sat right at my eye level, two heavy muscled mounds with the whole skyline hanging above them. I put a hand on each cheek and spread him open slowly, and his hole sat tight and pink between them, small on a guy that big.

"Don't be shy," he said over his shoulder. "You've had two dicks up yours. You know what it wants."

I leaned in and dragged my tongue over his hole in one long flat lick, and this six-five alpha groaned at midtown and pushed his ass back onto my face. He tasted like soap and sweat underneath it.

"Fuck yeah," he breathed against the glass. "My own analyst, tongue in my ass. Circle it. Yeah. Like that."

I circled him with the flat of my tongue until his hole twitched under it, and his fingers squeaked against the window.

"Now get in there, bro. All of it."

I pointed my tongue and pressed into him, and he opened up around the tip, and his quads shook against my palms as I worked deeper.

"That's it. That's my guy," he moaned at his city. "Deeper. Show me that work ethic."

I gripped his thick thighs and buried my face between his cheeks, my nose mashed against his tailbone, tonguing him as deep as I could reach while he rocked himself back onto my mouth.

He pulled his ass off my tongue and straightened up off the glass, and when he turned around his dick stood straight out at me, hard and bobbing just from getting rimmed. He looked down at me kneeling there with my chin wet.

"Look at you," he said. "On your knees in your own office building with my ass all over your face. You're a filthy animal, bro."

"You bent over for it," I said.

"Yeah I did." He hooked his hands under my armpits and hauled me up, my knees unbending reluctantly, and he spun me and walked me backward until my bare ass pressed flat against the cold glass. I sucked in a breath at the chill of it, nothing behind me but window and open air over midtown. He planted one forearm on the glass beside my head and gripped my jaw in his other hand, tilting my face up to his.

"Open your mouth," he said, and I opened, and he kissed me hard, his tongue dominating my mouth while he pinned me there with his whole weight, his hips pressing into mine until my dick was trapped steel-hard against his, both of us leaking between our stomachs.

"You eat ass like you get paid for it," he said into my mouth.

"I kind of do now."

"Nasty little analyst." He ground his dick against mine slowly. "I can taste my own musk in your mouth. That's filthy, bro. I love it."

"Then quit kissing me and put it back in me," I said.

"Yeah? Beg me."

"Fuck me over your whole city."

"There's my guy," he said, and he grabbed my hips.

His watch beeped between us, and he broke the kiss to glance at it.

"I've got a call," he said against my mouth. "So I'm gonna finish inside you and send you back to your desk full of me."

Everything we had done ran out of order for normal sex, kissing after fucking, rimming in the middle, dirty talk between all of it, and it made it even hotter. This was the only thing that was in the right place, cumming at the end.

"Hot," I breathed.

"Turn around."

He spun me by my shoulders, and I put my palms back into my own fog prints on the glass, arching my ass out at him, midtown spread under my hands again. He stepped in close behind me and dragged his dickhead down between my cheeks, nudging at my hole without pushing in, his chest warm against my back.

"Ask for it."

"Put it back in me, bro."

"There's my guy." He slid home in one long stroke, both of us groaning, until his hips sat flush against my ass. "This hole was built for me."

He found that spot on the first stroke and stayed on it, pumping into me until my legs shook against the glass.

"Fifty grand and my dick in the same week," he breathed on my neck. "Best compensated analyst in Manhattan."

I could read his cues by now, his grip clamping onto my hips, his thrusts accelerating, his breath ragged on my neck. 

His hand slid off my hip and wrapped around my dick, which had been bouncing against the glass untouched this whole time, and he jerked me in time with his thrusts, his fist tight and still slippery with leftover lube.

"There it is," he grunted against my neck. "You gonna nut for me? Do it on the window, bro. Give midtown a fresh coat."

"Keep hitting that spot and you'll get it," I panted, my breath fogging the glass in bursts.

"Yeah? Ask the city." He rammed that angle again, and again, his fist never losing the rhythm. "Cum on my skyline."

My legs started shaking first, and he felt it and fucked me faster, and I squirted hard, long pulses striping the glass over midtown, my own moan bouncing back at me off the window. My hole clenched on him with every pulse.

"Fuck, bro, you're milking me," he groaned, and his fingers dug into my hips, and he rammed a few more sloppy thrusts into me before holding himself as deep as he could get. I felt his dick throb as he unloaded in me, one long flex after another, his groan vibrating against my back. We stayed exactly like that, both of us panting at the view, his chin hooked over my shoulder.

"I'm king of this city," he said against my ear. "You're my prince."