The Accounts guy - Chapter 1 (Patreon)

 Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 1 - Fire stairs

The company had rented the rooftop and the two floors under it and called it team-building. Open bar. Name tags on lanyards that kept flipping backward. A playlist chosen by someone in HR who thought Mr. Brightside still counted as trendy. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a cool song.

They’d put out those high tables that make everyone hold a drink like a prop. From the far rail you could see the river and a billboard for our own campaign, which somebody in sales thought was hilarious.

I lasted twenty minutes before I started counting exits.

I’m Phill. Twenty-four. Marketing. Hired last spring to make the brand look like it had a pulse. I knew every face on that roof and exactly two people I wanted to talk to. Sean wasn’t one of them.

Sean worked accounts. Twenty-eight. The kind of handsome that belongs on a hotel terrace with a paperback he isn’t reading. Brown hair that always looked cut that morning. White shirt rolled to the forearm. A watch that cost more than my rent. He’d been sanding me down since week one. Never loud enough for HR. Always loud enough for the kitchen.

Careful what you put in the deck, rainbow. We’re not in June.

You checking out the interns or the clients.

Funny how marketing always hires that type. 

A year of it. Shoulder in the hallway when nobody important was looking. A laugh that arrived half a second after faggot had already landed. I smiled because I liked the job more than I liked the fantasy of a meeting with People Ops.

Tonight he’d been drinking like the quarter had closed early. I watched him from the other end of the roof without meaning to. He did the grip-and-grin with two VPs. He tipped his head back when he laughed and the column of his throat caught the string lights. A girl from legal put her hand on his arm and he let it sit there and didn’t do anything with it. His eyes kept moving. Once they crossed me. He looked through me, then looked again, then turned back to his glass.

I took the long way around the buffet so I wouldn’t pass him. He found me anyway, by the ice bucket, like the roof wasn’t big enough.

“Didn’t think this was your scene,” he said. Close. Whiskey on the breath. That clean cologne he wore like a uniform. “All these hot women. All this straight male energy.”

“I’m getting a drink, Sean.”

“You’re holding an empty cup.”

I looked down. He was right. I set it on the table.

He smiled the smile he used in meetings right before he undercut somebody.

“Relax. It’s a joke. You people can take a joke, right? Too woke to laugh at some innocent jokes. That’s the brand. Rainbow and pride flags.”

“Go talk to legal.” I said. “She already has her hand on you.”

Something flickered through his face. Annoyance. Or heat. Hard to tell on him.

“You watching me now?” he said, quieter. “That’s cute. That’s exactly what I mean. Eyes everywhere. Measuring. You think I don’t feel it when you look.”

“I think you looked back.”

For a second the string lights made his cheekbones look expensive and mean. Then someone from HR tapped a glass and started a speech about synergy and he used it as a door. Walked off. Left the cologne hanging.

I gave it ten more minutes. I nodded at my manager. I let an intern show me a TikTok of the office dog. I felt Sean on the other side of the roof the whole time, like a pulled muscle.

When I pushed through the service door it wasn’t brave. It was air. The music dropped to a thud. The corridor smelled like hotel carpet and dish soap. The emergency stairwell had been propped with a crumpled napkin. Cool concrete. That paint-and-dust smell stairwells keep even in new buildings.

I went down one flight and sat on a step and put my head in my hands.

The door above opened harder than it needed to.

Cheap whiskey. The same cologne. The latch clicked.

Sean came down the steps like the stairwell had invited him. White shirt, one button too far. Sweat at his temple. He stopped on the landing above me and looked down.

“Following me now,” I said.

“You left first.”

He descended until we were on the same grey square of concrete. Eight flights below us, a door to a parking level. Above us, the party. Between us, nothing.

“Didn’t think you went to these,” he said. Not a greeting. An inventory. “Figured you’d be somewhere with fewer women.” Again the same story, he was clearly drunk.

“I told you. Air.”

He didn’t leave. He came closer. The watch caught the exit sign and threw a red tick across his wrist.

“You’re always so fucking sure of yourself,” he said. “That’s the thing with you people. Walk around the office like the floor is a showroom with your Zara clothes. I see you. Looking.”

“What is your problem tonight, Sean? Blue balls?”

“You are.” The smile again. Smaller. Meaner. “Faggy boy from marketing who thinks a sticker on a laptop makes him bulletproof. You don’t belong in rooms where men close deals. You belong wherever you go after hours. And we both know what that is. Some dark woods where men are looking for blowjobs.”

He shifted. Adjusted himself through the trousers like he wanted my eyes to follow. I hated that they did. He was packed. He’d always been packed. That was part of the nightmare. The homophobe had a bulge he couldn’t stop advertising.

“Real guys don’t look at other guys,” he said. “Especially not at a little cocksucker who can’t keep his eyes in his own skull.”

I looked at his mouth. Then at the dark, jumpy thing under the charm.

A year of hallways. A year of jokes that always circled back to what I did with my mouth. A year of him standing too close to my desk with a question he didn’t need to ask in person.

It wasn’t just hate.

It was hunger, repressed sexuality wearing expensive Ralph Lauren polos and shirts.

I stood up so we were even. I stepped into his space until his cologne was all I could smell.

“Real men?” I said. Quiet. “You mean guys like you.”

My palm found the front of his trousers.

He went still.

He was not soft. He was thick behind the wool, already swelling into my hand like his body had gotten the joke before his mouth had.

“Don’t— take your hand off my bulge, faggy boy.”

I didn’t squeeze hard. I just held him. Proof.

“All year,” I said. “The slurs. The laughing. The way you fix your dick every time I walk past your desk. That wasn’t a warning, Sean. That was a request you were too much of a coward to make.”

His breath hitched. His hands hovered at my wrists and didn’t land.

I walked him backward. He went. For a so-called real macho man, he offered the resistance of a coat on a hook. His heel found the stair. I turned him and put his back to the painted wall between two flights. The exit sign threw red over his throat.

“Say the word NO, and I take my hand off. I’m not like you, Sean. I respect people.”

He swallowed. His cock kicked against my palm.

“Fuck you, little bitch.”

“That’s not the word.”

I move my hand to the zipper. He made a sound that wanted to be a threat and came out as air. I shoved the front down with his briefs in one motion. He sprang out, big dick, flushed, already wet at the slit, slapping up against the white shirt. Thick. Longer than the attitude. The last man in the building who should have been this hard for me.

He tried to cover himself. I caught his wrist and pinned it to the concrete next to his head.

“You’re going to tell me, straight to my face you don’t want my blowjob right now?” I asked. “Go ahead. I’ll wait for your deliberation.”

“I’m not gay like you.”

“I didn’t ask you to be gay. I asked you if you wanted my mouth.”

The stairwell hummed. Bass through the door. Someone laughed a floor above and didn’t come down.

I let go of his wrist. I didn’t touch him.

“You can walk back to the rooftop,” I said. 

“Tuck that away. Tell yourself I jumped you. Or you take your hand off it and you let me do what you’ve been calling me for a year.”

His fingers flexed. Once. Twice. Then they slid aside.

“Do it, faggot.” he said. Hoarse. “Just— do it and shut up.”

I went to my knees on the landing.

Up close he was worse. Veined along the underside. The head fat and shiny. A clean, trimmed dark that didn’t match the mouth that had been calling me filthy for twelve months. I breathed on him and his hips jerked like he’d been shocked.

I didn’t start at the head.

I ran my tongue from the base up, slow enough that he had to feel every inch of it, and he made a broken noise. I took one of his balls into my mouth and sucked, gentle, mean, and his head thunked back against the wall.

“Fuck— that’s good.”

The other one. Same treatment. His thighs opened without him telling them to. I licked the tight skin behind them and he swore at the ceiling.

Then I took him.

I sank until the head punched the back of my throat and kept going. Nose in the neat hair. Throat working. He grabbed the railing with one hand and my hair with the other and didn’t push me off.

“Jesus— what are you doing with your mouth, that’s… that’s—”

I pulled off slow, let him see the spit, and went down again. No showy gag. Just work. The kind of work he’d named me for. I set a pace and I kept it. Every time I came up I twisted my fist around the wet inches I couldn’t bury. Every time I went down I stayed a second longer than comfort.

I came off him long enough to talk, my voice already shot.

“You spent a year using that word F like it was supposed to hurt. It isn’t an insult, Sean. It’s a skill. You’re finding that out on the fire stairs of a team-building. Being a faggot it’s my choice, and I love it. Men love my faggot mouth.”

Then I took him again, faster. His hips started giving me short, helpless punches he couldn’t stop. The railing creaked. Spit ran off my chin onto the concrete in a dark coin. His cock throbbed every time I hummed around it.

I pulled off and slapped the wet head against my tongue.

“Hands on the rail. Both of them. You don’t get to steer.”

He put them there. Knuckles white. The white shirt had ridden up. He looked like a magazine model ad someone had ruined on purpose. I sucked him like I had a point to prove, because I did. I took him to the root and held, swallowing around the head, until his legs shook. When I let him breathe he tried to push back in on his own.

“Greedy,” I said. “For a man who doesn’t look at guys.”

“Don’t— talk—don’t look at me, just… suck it like that.”

“I’ll talk. You listen. You called me a cocksucker in the kitchen in front of two interns in March. You said it like I should be ashamed. I’m not ashamed of who I am. I’m good. You’re the one shaking.”

I went down and stayed. His stomach jumped. A string of sound came out of him that wasn’t words. I backed off to the head and licked the slit clean and did it again.

“Don’t you come yet,” I said, stroking him, cheek against his thigh. “You’ve been a prick for a year. You can last five minutes, right?”

“I can’t— fuck, Phill, I can’t—”

“Yes you can. Look at me. Control yourself, big boy. Hold it. Breathe slow, concentrate.”

He looked. Exit-sign red on his wet shaft. Pupils blown. Mouth open.

“Say you want it.”

His jaw clenched. Pride dying in real time.

“I want it. Fuck. I want it. Don’t stop.”

I didn’t stop.

I took him in long, filthy strokes, spitting, my fist twisting on the downbeat. Nasty sounds echoed on the emergency stairs. He started talking without meaning to — shit, shit, there, don’t you fucking stop — the corporate voice gone, just a man on a landing getting his cock sucked by the person he’d spent a year trying to shrink.

A door opened two flights up. Voices. He froze. I didn’t. I kept him in my throat and looked up at him and his hands tightened on the rail until the voices passed and the door slammed and he let out a breath like he’d been underwater.

“You’re insane,” he whispered.

“You’re still in my mouth,” I said, and took him to the root again.

When he got close his rhythm broke. He couldn’t keep still. I pulled off, wrapped my fist around him, and pointed him at my tongue.

“Then give it to me. That’s an order, Sean. Feed me, feed your favorite faggot.”

He broke.

He came with his teeth bared and a sound the playlist on the roof almost covered. Hot. A lot. Across my tongue, my lip, one stripe on my cheek that ran down toward my collar. I kept him in my mouth through the last pulses and swallowed what I could. He twitched like he’d been unplugged. I licked him clean until he hissed and tried to step back and had nowhere to go but the wall.

I stayed on my knees until he stopped shaking. Then I stood, wiped my mouth with the back of my wrist, and looked at him.

Sean was wrecked. Shirt wrinkled. Trousers open. Cock shining and softening against his thigh. Eyes wide like the landing had changed shape.

“Hell…” he whispered. “I’ve never— not like that. Not ever.”

I fixed my collar. The party was still thudding through the door.

“Here’s how this works,” I said. “You don’t talk to me like that in the kitchen or in the office anymore. You want this again, you find me after hours and you ask. You try the slurs on Monday and I don’t come back when you call.”

His hand caught my belt as I stepped toward the door. Not hard. Just there.

“Phill.”

“Yeah.”

He couldn’t find the second sentence. His throat worked. He looked at my mouth and then away, like the exit sign had gotten brighter.

“Monday,” I said. “You know where my desk is. Bring coffee if you’re going to be a coward about it. Bring your cock if you’re not.”

I pushed the door. Heat, cheesy 80’s song and somebody from HR laughing about a stupid joke on the mic. Behind me I heard a zipper, and a breath, and the quiet of a man trying to become accounts again before he walked back onto the roof.

I didn’t wait.

I already knew he’d find the desk.