Work Text:
Gregory thought maybe the whole shoelace thing was a one-off. He'd gone home and jerked himself off practically before the door finished closing, coming harder than he had in his whole life as soon as he untied his junk. Just Tom letting off some steam, right?
Then Tom corners him in a supply closet, and they make out until Gregory's mouth feels sandblasted, Tom keeping a firm grip on Gregory's balls the whole time. So, not a one-off, then, he thinks hopefully.
"I have a present for you," Tom says on Monday, and Gregory slops coffee on his pants in surprise. "Greg, control yourself."
"Sorry," Gregory says automatically, even though he hadn't spilled on Tom. "Uh, what is it?"
Tom hands him a box in a brown paper wrapping. A sick, turned-on feeling starts up in the pit of Gregory's stomach when he takes it, made of equal parts dread and delight. "I want you to take this into the men's room," Tom says, "and shove it up your ass."
"I -- what?" But Tom is already on his way out of Gregory's office.
He thinks about not doing it, but really, it was a foregone conclusion. Curiosity killed the cat, Gregory thinks, and he locks himself into a stall in the men's room.
The sound of tearing paper echoes off the tiled walls, almost as loud as the rushing in Gregory's ears. It's -- "Oh, Jesus," Gregory says aloud, and winces. It's a remote-controlled prostate massager, and the remote has been replaced with a bottle of lube.
He could still just... not. It's a solid possibility. Tom is the boss of him, technically, but he's not, like, the boss of him. Gregory could put the prostate massager and the lube back in the box. But something inside him really doesn't want to do that.
Gregory takes a deep breath and undoes his pants. He's sort of explored the territory back there before, so at least he has that going for him, here; he knows how to slick up a finger and remind his butt that, actually, it likes to have something in it. Then it's time for the prostate massager, smooth and black and probably really expensive.
It slides in, and oh, that's the spot, right away. The head of it rubs his prostate, and the... foot, or whatever, snugs up behind his balls, and the whole situation is just -- very nice.
But, Gregory reminds himself, he's at work.Fuck. He pulls up his pants, then washes his hands and splashes some cold water on his face. The blush recedes down below his collar, and he can't justify hiding in the bathroom any longer.
Gregory tries to walk normally back to his office, but he's incredibly aware of his ass and general taint area, and he can't remember how long his stride usually is, and oh, thank God, there's the door, there's his chair, everything is fine.
Everything is not fine, because Tom shows up in the doorway. "How's it going, Greg?" he asks, fingering his pocket.
"Goo-- uh, good, yeah," Gregory says, sitting very still. "How are you, Tom?"
"I could be better," Tom says. He smiles, and it's not a ery nice smile, but it does things to Gregory anyway. Then Tom turns on the massager, and that does even more things to him.
"Is this -- oh, fuck -- is this better? For you?" Gregory asks. He squirms in his seat, and that only makes it worse. Better. Worse. He doesn't know!
"Oh, absolutely." Tom looks fascinated, like one of the cats on his granddad's ranch playing with a mouse. Gregory's never felt this much like a small animal before. It twists in his gut in a horrible-yet-sexy way. "How is it for you, Greg?"
Gregory wets his lips. "It's -- uh -- it's sure something," he hedges. He doesn't know if he wants it to stop or keep going. Fuck!
And Tom turns it off. "Well, see you later, Greg," he says, bright and cruel, and he walks away, whistling.
God, he's still tingling from it. Gregory tries to will his dick soft and focus on work, but just knowing that, any minute now, Tom could come back --
What if he does come back? What if he doesn't? Gregory doesn't know what any of his feelings are doing. After a while, he settles down enough to do some paperwork. He's chugging along, signing off on this and that, almost able to ignore the insistent pressure on his prostate, when suddenly the massager clicks on and Gregory scrawls halfway across the page, a deep black gash.
"Ulp!" he says helplessly.
"Hey, Greg!" Tom has his both hands in his pockets. It's not doing a very good job of hiding the fact that he's hard. "Got a minute?"
"Uh, yeah," Gregory says, and the massager clicks off.
"Good! Come with me." Tom motions for Gregory to get up, so he does, unsteadily, and follows him down the hallway. They stop outside the supply closet, and Tom looks both ways before dragging Gregory inside by the elbow. "Do you want to come in your pants or out of them?"
"What?" Gregory blinks.
Tom sighs heavily. "You're going to get on your knees and blow me," he says, "and I'm going to use the remote to make you come. So are you taking off your Men's Wearhouse slacks first, or not?"
"Taking them off," Gregory says, and hurries to do that, folding them and setting them on a shelf half-full of boxes of pens. Then he gets on his knees and fills his mouth with Tom's dick.
"That's right," Tom says, tangling his fingers in Gregory's hair and yanking. "Take it all."
The massager clicks on, and Gregory moans, letting Tom fuck his throat, feeling the vibrations roll through him.
"You like this," Tom goes on, "you big, gangly slut. You'd probably like it even if we were in the fucking conference room, where everybody could watch, wouldn't you, Greg?"
When Gregory doesn't answer right away, Tom pulls him off his dick by the hair and stares at him until he says, "Yeah. Yes. I would."
"Damn skippy." Tom shoves him back down, and he goes willingly. "You'd fucking love it, Greg. Everygody seeing what a good cocksucker you are, with that thing sticking out of your slutty ass -- oh, fuck, just like that --"
Gregory closes his eyes and hollows his cheeks, and Tom thrusts deep into his throat. Shit, he does love this. He feels good at it, even if he doesn't exactly feel good about it, and --
Tom turns the massager off. "Don't want you getting too cocky," he says, and Gregory moans again around his dick. Tom pats his cheek, rolls his hips forward one more time, and comes with a grunt.
His dick slips out of Gregory's mouth, and Gregory gives the tip of it a little kiss.
"Weird, Greg," Tom says, but he doesn't sound mad. He puts his dick away, then turns the massager back on and leans against the shelves. "Now it's your turn."
Gregory can feel it in his teeth. He reaches for his dick, but Tom shakes his head. "No? But --"
"I believe in you," Tom says. "You can do it with no hands. Put them behind your back."
"Oh, jeez." But Gregory does it, his dick leaking in his boxer-briefs, and he rocks back on his heels. It makes the massager move inside, him, and oh, fuck -- he comes like crazy.
"Good job," Tom says. There's sarcasm in it, like usual, but Gregory feels too good to care. "Now put your pants back on, Greg, jeez, we're at work."
"Do I, uh -- take the thing out, first?"
'Nah," Tom says. "I'm not done with you yet." He slips out of the closet, leaving Gregory alone in his damp underwear, still panting for breath.