I hate suits. It’s partly because I was forced to wear one for years at school, sweating and itching in the summer even with a jacket off, and freezing in the winter even with a long coat on top. It’s partly because every time I wear one I feel hyperaware of how young and boyish I look, like some wide-hipped child dressing up in his father’s suit. And it’s partly because I hate the authority- real or fake- that they represent.
I’m not wearing a suit in this fantasy. But the man on his knees in front of me is.
Maybe he’s my boss, maybe he’s my boss’ boss, maybe he’s just somebody who hired me for freelance. It doesn’t matter. Whoever he is, we’re in his office and I’m splayed casually over his desk chair and he’s in front of me, on his knees. My foot rests gently on his crotch, and against the black fabric of his suit, the red of my sneakers seems even brighter than normal.
His eyes are wide as they glance from my shoes to my face, and I give a half smile, one corner of my mouth curling up. It’s a cruel smile, but I want it to be crueler.
“You want something?” I ask, and I toy with the words around my tongue like a cat toying with a mouse.
“Please”, he says, breathlessly. “Please.”
I press the back of my heel up against his balls- firm but without too much pressure- and the soles of my shoes have been worn down enough for me to feel him get harder through them. He lets out a breathy moan, and fuck, I just want to take as much of whatever he’ll let me take from him as I can. I want to use him up and discard him when I’m done with him.
I push my foot into his balls again, in one harsh movement, and it’s far less gentle this time. He yelps, and a few moments after he does, a voice comes in over the intercom.
“You okay? Do you need help?”
He looks up at me with wide eyes and I nod, moving my foot from his crotch. It’s a chance to get out, if he wants it.
He swallows, and it makes the bulge of his Adam’s apple shift.
“No”, he says. “I don’t need help. Sorry, I just dropped something.”
He’s good at lying, and I try not to think too hard about where he’s learnt how to do it. Or maybe I do think too hard about it, think about all the people he’s played sycophant to, about all the power struggles I’ve never seen.
“Alright”, the secretary says, and the intercom is silent once more. He looks up at me with expectant eyes.
“Do you like this, sir?” I ask. I love calling him that when he’s like this, desperate for me. It ruins the authority of the word, makes it meaningless.
The knot of his tie is undone slightly.
The office is hot in the midsummer heat and the air is static and heavy, even as the fan behind us tries desperately to cool the room down.
I stand up from the desk chair, suddenly aware of how much my skin is flushing under the thick fabric of my hoodie. I pull it over my head, taking my t-shirt part of the way with it, and I can feel his eyes follow the faint trail of hair down from my stomach to my crotch.
I’ve always loved how my dicks look in jeans. There’s something about denim that just cups and shapes and frames a packer beautifully. I’ve heard friends talk about the dilemma of choosing between their dick looking good in sweatpants or their ass looking good in jeans. But I’ve never had to choose, because dark blue jeans that are tight in the right places make me feel sexier than any other item of clothing.
I bury a hand in his hair as best I can, and because his hair is a short and inoffensive conservative cut it’s hard to twist my fingers in it. I still tug as best I can, pulling him forward until his face is just brushing against my bulge. I like to pack with packers that are just a little too big to look natural at a second glance, and it’s entirely motivated by toxic masculinity, but at times like this I don’t care. He rubs his cheek against my cock slowly, his lips just parted, and I tug a little harder. He moves to the side so it’s his mouth instead of his cheek now, corners curling up into a smile.
I know his tongue is flickering back and forth as he mouths as my dick, even if I can’t feel the movements. Being pressed against my body for the day has made the silicone warm, and it feels like part of my body even as the weight of it is pressed against me. His mouth is open now, tongue lapping at what his lips leave untouched, and the blue of my jeans is darker and darker with wetness by the moment.
“God”, I say breathlessly. “God I want to fuck you sir.”
His looks up at me again with those wide eyes, not stopping what he’s doing, one hand reaching up to cup at the balls as I start to squirm, tightening my grip on his hair, pulling hard enough that it must hurt, it has to hurt, and the fact it doesn’t even seem to register just makes me frustrated.
The next time I speak it’s more forcefully.
“I’m going to fuck you sir.”
And I am. I’m going to reach into my backpack to find the dildo hidden alongside my cables and slide it into my packing harness. I’m going to bend him over, over his desk, over the chair, or just over onto his hands and knees on the floor, stretch him out with one, then two, then three, then four lube slicked fingers before I finally fuck him. Fuck him with my fingernails digging into his hips, forcing moans out between his lips as I ruin him in his own office, make him spill onto the floor or the desk or the chair, leave him to clean it up afterwards. Fuck him so good and hard that every time he walks into his office he thinks about it.
“You want that too, don’t you sir?”
His movements are painfully slow, but he gets up from his knees, slides those suit trousers down till they pool around his ankles, and bends over the desk without a word.
This piece of smut is pure fantasy, and any resemblance to real situations or people is unintentional and coincidental.