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There’s a note on Mac’s desk when he gets in that morning. He barely notices it through the sweat dripping into his eyes, chest heaving from his sprint up the eight flights of stairs. Of course, the one morning he was running late, all the elevators had to be full.
Well, the one morning this week.
Anyways, it’s not like he has any meetings. Just things to do. Paperwork to fill out.
Still, it’s annoying to see the glaringly yellow sticky note on top his keyboard, squiggly handwriting quickly scrawled across it:
Ronald, pick up some files in my office. -Dennis
Mac scowls at the words, righteously indignant as he slams his book bag to the ground.
“Fucking Dennis.” He seethes under his breath, spinning on his heel and marching off down the hall towards the bastard’s office. Better to get it over with.
The guy isn’t even Mac’s boss, not really. More like his boss’ boss. He shouldn’t be able to order Mac around via sticky note, but god knows his good-for-nothing manager won’t do anything to stop it. It’s the fifth time this month Dennis has requested Mac’s help with some files, which doesn’t make any sense, honestly, because anytime he sees Dennis he’s chatting aimlessly at the water cooler or combing his hair at his desk. He can’t be so busy that he needs Mac’s help.
Mac does it anyway, though. Maybe it’ll get him a promotion, helping out the CEO’s son. Lord willing.
He sends an amen up to the big guy at the thought, just to cover all his bases, as he comes to a stop before Dennis’ office. The door is shut. Mac peeks his head to the side, and finds the adjacent window has its blinds drawn. No lights on, either.
“Motherfucker.” He hisses to himself as he pounds on the wood, satisfied as the engraved nameplate rattles against the door from the force.
Someone shushes him from down the hall, and he nearly bites back with a shout before clamping down on his tongue.
There’s no response from inside the office. Dennis isn’t there.
So, Mac grabs the door handle and shoves it open, hard enough for it to slam against the adjoining wall and bounce back. Dennis’ office is, as expected, dark and empty, so he stomps in. The door swings shut behind him.
“Stupid Dennis, can walk all the way over to my desk with a note but can’t bring the damn files.” Mac trudges across the room, hardly glancing at the gaudy decor lining the walls. He’s used to it, now. Well aware of Dennis’ lack of taste. His air of pomp.
Atop his regal wooden desk, a stack of files sits so high it's precarious. Mac groans aloud as he approaches.
Another sticky note rests on top of the stack, yellow and painful to look at.
For Mac.
“Seriously?” Mac can’t help it, exclaiming aloud, but the rage boiling in his chest needs to be expressed. He wants to kick something. All the files combined have got to be more than twenty clients worth of work, close to half of Mac’s weekly workload. He sighs, loud enough to echo around the room, reaching to slide the pile into his arms. “At least he finally got my name right. Who the hell does he think he is, calling me Ronald-“
His hands can’t quite reach around the entire stack, and as he pulls back from the desk, a couple of files from the bottom plop onto the ground and scatter.
Among them, a thicker paper lands against Mac’s foot, and upon closer inspection, he can tell it’s some sort of magazine.
“The hell?” Leaning over, squinting to get a closer look, Mac’s heart drops into his stomach as his eyes focus. His tongue feels thick.
The cover is neon yellow, and spread across the front is an image of a man. Sweaty. Glistening. Naked.
It’s a Blueboy issue from 1999. The corners are a little bent. It’s used. Belongs to someone.
Mac’s eyes widen.
Belongs to Dennis?
He clears his throat, once, twice, before tearing his gaze away from the magazine and looking frantically around the room. As if someone could have seen him.
His face feels hot. There’s sweat pricking beneath his arms. His tie is choking him.
In a flurry, Mac slams the files he’s holding back onto the desk before throwing himself to the ground in a rush to pick up the fallen papers. He religiously avoids locking eyes with the man on the magazine cover, reaching beneath Dennis’ desk to grab one of the stray manila folders. He shoves papers into it haphazardly, uncaring how rumpled they end up, and pushes back to his feet.
“Shit!” With a sharp burst of pain, he pitches forward once again, holding the back of his head. He hit it on the bottom of the desk, like a fucking idiot. His blood is bubbling in his veins. He feels dizzy.
The magazine brushes against his foot. He can feel the toe of his loafer pushing it open slightly.
His foot pushes harder. The magazine flips open.
Blue words, large across the page, read:
FIRE ISLAND: THE LAND OF MAKE BELIEVE
And beneath it-
Mac chokes on an inhale.
Two men, clad heavily in leather. One sits atop a pile of storage boxes, and the other kneels between his legs. There’s a hand in the kneeling one’s hair, pulling him forward, so his nose brushes against the crotch of the other’s chaps. Both men are smiling, like they’re in the middle of a laugh, but their eyes pierce each other with a heat that Mac can feel through the paper.
His heart pounds in his throat. He can’t move his eyes away, even though his mind screams at him to leave this well enough alone.
He loves leather, loves the smell of it. Probably because his dad used to wear a leather jacket all the time. You know, before he went to prison.
And he loves muscles. Admiring another man’s hard work, the dedication he put into crafting his form. It’s envy, slightly, because Mac has always been scrawny. Oil never gleams on his biceps the way it does for the man in the photo-
He’s never seen leather like this. He’s heard of it, of course, he’s not stupid, but anytime he got close enough to glimpse at the magazines in the sex shop by his apartment, the cashier would walk over and he would bolt back towards the MILF section. Because those DVDs were usually on sale. And had older ladies with big tits. Which he likes.
Leaning closer to the photo before him, Mac can just barely see the outline of the dude’s dick in his chaps. Like it’s hard. Like it’s big.
His hand twitches, and he realizes he’s been gripping the manila folder tight enough to leave imprints. Quickly, he slams it up above him onto the desk, and wipes the sweat from his palms onto his slacks. Pushes up onto his knees so he can look around the room. Looks back at the open magazine.
Climbs onto the office chair beside him and leans down to pick up the booklet. Settles against the backrest, feet flat on the ground. The magazine’s in his lap.
If he ducks just a little, he’s almost completely blocked by the file stack on the desk.
He can feel sweat dripping down his back.
“Just one more page.” He whispers to himself, and gingerly pinches the edge of the photo and flips the page.
It’s the same scene, but also, it’s not.
Pants are gone. The men are missing pants.
Well, it’s not like they really had them before. Chaps aren’t exactly pants.
Mac gets an eyeful of dick. Naked dick, erect and sort of shiny, as the man on the ground leans forward to press his lips against it. It’s a kiss, puckered and tender. Loving, maybe. They could be in love.
The man on the ground is bare, too, but Mac can only see his bunch of public hair, the bulk of his groin hidden behind the other man’s leg.
There’s harnesses and hats and boots and belts and so many items of clothing, yet the men feel butt naked.
Mac’s hands tighten around the edges of the magazine.
His face is hot.
He wonders, if just before this, before the man sunk to the ground and got hands in his hair, they kissed. If they pushed each other up against the wall and sucked each other’s faces. Their cheeks are pink, lips look damp, but there’s no way to tell. No lipstick smears. No hickeys.
Sort of, in the back of his mind, Mac wishes he could see that.
His dick certainly does. He’s aware of it, now, stirring in his pants, and when he lifts the magazine off his lap, he can see its outline through his slacks.
“No.” He hisses at it, heart pounding.
Laying the magazine back down, his eyes jump to the photo again.
And then, he notices the top right corner of the page. It’s folded over tightly in a dog ear so a sliver of the photo is missing.
It’s saving a page.
Mac grabs hold of it, flipping the thin paper.
The same men are somewhere else. A bench outside. The kneeling one is splayed on his back, bare except for the hat on his head and the collar around his neck. Also, the cuff around his wrist that’s shackling him to the bench’s arm. Hands are still in his hair, but the other man is down his body, just his head visible. His mouth is spread open to take the other’s cock as far down his throat as he can. His eyes are closed. There’s spit and hair and sweat. The man on his back has his mouth open in rapture. His eyes are closed, too.
Fiddling with the dog ear, Mac smoothes it out, unveiling the top corner of the image. It’s just background, nothing important. Nothing to pull his eyes away from the scene.
His other hand has slipped beneath the magazine. Rubs aimlessly against the crotch of his pants. Soothing the heat that’s building inside him.
Mac realizes what he’s doing at the exact same time he remembers where he is. His hand stills.
Dennis’ office. With Dennis’ magazine.
That Dennis had… left? Forgotten?
Accidentally slipped into the pile of papers meant for Mac?
Purposefully left for Mac to find?
The thought makes his heart thud in his chest, and he gasps around it.
No way. No chance. This was all an unfortunate accident.
Mac can imagine it.
Dennis, staying late after work, skimming through a nudie magazine. All alone, left alone. Hiding them in his office so his housemates don’t find them. Or, maybe he lives with his mother. Went on a lunch date that left him so hot and bothered he couldn’t help himself.
Got interrupted. Dog-eared the page for later.
Mac sucks a breath in through clenched teeth.
Can feel, in his mind, Dennis’ eyes on the page. Searching for something.
What does he like about it? Mac searches, too.
The artistry? The models?
Handcuffs? Public nudity?
Men?
A groan punches its way out of his chest, and he shoves the magazine off his lap. It falls, folded awkwardly, onto the ground as Mac’s fingers fumble with his belt buckle.
He unclasps it just enough to get to the button of his slacks. And the zipper. And through the fabric of his underwear.
Under the desk, he pushes his feet further away, the toes of his loafers bumping against the end of it. He’s stretched out in the desk chair, nearly reclined, chin tipped to his chest so he can watch his hand move beneath his clothes. His stomach twitches as his fingers drag over his pelvis, moving quickly to wrap around the shaft of his dick.
Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, Mac bites down hard as he moves his hand to keep a grunt from escaping them. His angle is slightly restricted by his clothes, but his wrist manages to make it work, and sparks shoot all the way down to his feet. He feels like he’s levitating. He’s panting around his teeth. His head falls back against the chair and he wrenches his eyes closed.
He wonders if Dennis did this same thing, in this same spot.
For some reason, the thought makes him hotter. Makes his hand move faster. Painfully fast, faster than he normally likes, but there’s desperation beneath his skin and his muscles are tensing up and he can feel himself gasping and-
His orgasm shakes through him so hard he can’t hear, can’t feel anything besides the pinpoint of sensation behind his stomach that seems to want to claw its way out of his skin. It’s as if his muscles melt off his bones, and he sinks into the chair, hand still.
His chest heaves as he breathes, trying to catch his breath. Manages to open his eyes and look around. He’s still alone.
Relief floods through him.
Then, shame. Fear.
“Holy shit.” He whispers to himself, shaking off the delicious glow of his orgasm in order to jump to his feet. He pushes the desk chair away from him, like it’s the culprit in this situation, and zips up his pants. Finds a tissue and wipes off his hand. Ignores the uncomfortable, damp heat in his underwear. Kicks the Blueboy under the desk.
In all, it takes one minute for him to exit the office, arms piled high with files. Face hot, skin still tingling beneath his clothes. Panting, slightly.
Beelining back towards his desk, Mac tries to shake off the feeling of unease that chases him out of Dennis’ office.
-
Mac’s on time the next day. He even managed to make a coffee in the office kitchen before sitting down to work, the hot mug grounding against his palm as he carries it to his desk.
When he gets there, someone is leaning against the wall of his cubicle, trying not to look out of place.
“Charlie?” Mac says, raising an eyebrow as he approaches. “Why are you not in the mail room?”
“Ah,” Charlie scratches at the back of his head, ruffling his already disheveled hair. His tie is on crooked, but Mac isn’t going to be the one to tell him. “Was delivering something to Dennis. He asked me to come get you.”
Taking a sip of his coffee, Mac tries to ignore the way his heart starts to pound. Like it dropped into his stomach and decided to thrash around. He can hear his pulse in his ears.
“Yeah?” His voice is shaky. “What for?”
Shrugging, Charlie pushes off from the cubicle wall. “None of my business. Just passing on the message.”
“Oh- okay. Bye?” Mac calls after Charlie as he walks away, twitchy and in a hurry, back towards the mailroom.
Weird ass guy. Sorts the mail pretty good, though, most of the time.
Mac takes his time in responding to the summons, finishing his coffee and reading through a couple emails. Some client is causing a stink about a misfile, and it’s so dumb and boring he almost prefers the spike of adrenalized fear he gets when he stands to march towards Dennis’ office.
Each step he takes, though, feels more like death. Like he’s making a mistake. Like he’s in trouble and needs to run.
He got home late last night because he stopped for dinner. Then, the smoke shop. Chainsmoked half the pack to gather the courage to enter the sex store by his place. Walked right to the video section and found something from the 80s with a Tom Selleck lookalike in a harness. Held an unlit cigarette between his lips the whole time, and handed cash over for the DVD without waiting for change.
Smoked the rest of his cigarettes. Drank a beer. Watched the whole porno twice before jacking off and falling asleep.
He woke up pretty refreshed, honestly. Tired, maybe. Forgot, slightly, about his lapse in judgement the day before.
The memories come back in full force as he stops in front of Dennis’ door. His stomach roils with nausea. Like he’s about to throw up. Oh, god, he’s going to throw up-
Dennis pulls the door open before Mac can sprint towards the bathroom. Bile coats his throat. He swallows, hard.
For a moment, Dennis stands silently, staring at him. Gaze jumping between Mac’s eyes, the air held tight between them. Mac shifts on his feet, able to hold Dennis’ eyes for a few beats before he drops them to the ground.
“Hey.” Dennis says, stepping back from the doorway. He heads towards his desk, motioning Mac after him. “Come on in.”
Following, Mac watches the door swing shut behind him as he steps into the office. He doesn’t get any closer. Certainly avoids looking at the desk, at the office chair, and the thought of the magazine still kicked beneath it.
A trophy on a shelf catches his eye. Something about golf. He doesn’t give a shit, but he looks at it anyway. Anything to distract him from the pounding of his heart.
Another silent moment holds between them, before Dennis clears his throat as he drops into the desk chair. “Take a seat, why don’t you?”
Gulping, Mac nods. Schools his face. Hopes he’s walking normally.
Each step he takes rattles the length of his spine, and he keeps his eyes trained on the ground as he lowers himself into one of the plush armchairs facing Dennis’ desk. Mac sucks in a deep breath through his nose before he lifts his eyes, meeting Dennis’, who perches his chin on his hand. The corners of his lips are ticked up. Mac can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing.
“So, what’s the progress on the files I gave you?” Dennis almost sounds bored as he poses the question, words lazily slipping past his lips.
“Oh, from yesterday?” Mac sits up straighter and messes with his tie. “They’re, um, still in progress. I have a lot of backlog to get through.”
Scoffing, Dennis leans back in his chair, waving his hand. “The dumb shit that idiot Ponderosa gives you is nothing. Put it on the back burner and do mine, yeah?”
“Um,” Mac chews on his words. “I’m not sure-“
“Mac.” Dennis’ tone becomes hard, eyes cold. “Just fucking do it.”
Beneath the gaze, Mac wilters. And, the shit Bill gives him is dumb, if he’s being honest.
Nodding, Mac concedes. “Alright, alright. Give me a week. It’s a lot of files, man.”
“Hm.” Is Dennis’ reply, before he turns towards his computer, typing and clicking in rapid succession. He doesn’t say anything to Mac through the silence, but also doesn’t dismiss him, so Mac stays, sitting stiff in the armchair.
He starts to look around the room again. Out the window, enjoying the view of the river below. Slides his hands on his thighs to keep his palms from sweating. Kicks a fray in the carpet, just lightly, until something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye.
Like a lighting strike, his nerves burst into static. His vision wavers for a moment, and he has to blink hard to reorient himself.
Next to the armchair, on a coffee table that separates it from its twin, lies the Blueboy. The same one Mac had kicked under the desk. It looks no worse for wear, but that’s not really his concern. It’s there. Next to him. Meaning-
“Oh, you noticed. Good.” Dennis’ voice cuts through the room. It’s thick and sticky, molasses as it meets Mac’s ears.
A click sounds from the direction of the door, like a lock activating, which would be impossible. Mac looks over his shoulder just to see, but can’t tell from where he’s sitting if the door looks any different.
Shivers climb up the back of his neck, and he fists his hands on top his thighs.
Dennis snaps his fingers, just once, drawing Mac’s attention again. The smile on his face has broadened, but it doesn’t meet his eyes.
“Did you like it?” Dennis asks, leaning slightly forward in his chair, like he’s eager to hear Mac’s answer.
Heart racing, Mac can feel his ears growing hot. He’s certainly red all over. Jittery, confused, disoriented.
But, there’s no way. No way he could know-
“I, uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mac’s teeth chatter as he speaks. “I’ve never seen that before-“
With a loud groan, Dennis rolls his eyes almost comically. He falls back into his chair in order to look at his computer, which he messes with for a second before grabbing the monitor with both hands and turning it in Mac’s direction.
“We both know that’s a lie, Mac.”
With a click of the mouse, Dennis is playing a video.
It’s dark, but clear. Obviously a great camera, the kind Mac’s only ever seen on TV, which would be cool if it wasn’t zeroed in on Mac, one day ago, lifting a stack of files off of Dennis’ desk.
“What-“ Mac’s voice catches in his throat. He considers jumping to his feet, but finds he can’t really move. Something rings in his ears.
“Just watch, Mac.” Dennis’ eyes are trained on the screen.
“I don’t- no, please, look-“
Dennis’ attention jumps to him as he shushes him with a hiss.
Mac falls silent.
At one point, he lifts his hands to cover his eyes, looking reluctantly between the grate of his fingers. Dennis watches the screen the whole time, smile growing wider as the video continues, laughing when Mac bumps his head beneath the desk.
“Love that part, really funny stuff, man.”
Mac’s tongue is caught in his throat, so he doesn’t respond.
The camera even picks up the words he whispered to himself, and Mac listens in mortification as he catches them. His whole body feels hot, like he’s about to combust, guts and gore exploding all over the place. The ringing in his ears hasn’t stopped. He needs water. He needs to run.
When he watches himself turn the dog-eared page of the magazine, a groan escapes his throat. He drops his head down towards his lap, crying out from behind his hands.
“Please, man.” Even to his own ears, he sounds desperate. Whiny. Pitiful.
“Don’t you think you deserve it, Mac?” There is no mercy in Dennis’ tone. If anything, there’s glee. “I mean, who in their right mind jacks off at work?”
“I-“ Mac’s not sure what he’s trying to say, but words fall out of his mouth anyways. “I didn’t-“
“You know, this isn’t even why I keep a camera in here, but it’s a nice surprise, you know? I’m a little bummed I didn’t catch it live, but- oh wait, wait, this part’s my favorite.”
It’s after the magazine has fallen to the floor, Mac’s hand down his pants. His head tips back against the desk chair.
Dennis shifts in his seat, sighing. “I only wish you’d put your fingers in your mouth. It was the perfect moment for it.” He shakes his head.
Mac’s close to fainting out of his chair. His hands twitch over his face as he watches himself on screen, shaking as orgasm overtakes him.
At that, Dennis stops the video. His laughter fills the room.
“You can make it up to me, though.”
Peeking at him around his hands, Mac still isn’t really sure what’s going on.
Dennis must be able to see the confusion. He motions in Mac’s direction. “Fingers. Mouth. I want to see it.”
“What?” Mac lowers his arms. Something twinges in his chest.
Huffing, Dennis pushes up from his seat, hands landing on his hips.
Immediately, Mac’s attention is drawn by the bulge in Dennis’ pants. He can’t look away from it, actually, like a magnet is holding him in place. Sweat is pooling in his collarbone, he can feel it. His heart is close to throbbing out of his chest.
“Well?” Mac manages to lift his eyes up to Dennis’ face. Dennis raises an eyebrow. “Your pick, Mac. Fingers, or…”
Trailing off, Dennis gestures down his body.
Mac’s mouth falls open. His cheeks are hot. He wants to jump to his feet and sock Dennis across the face.
But, he stays in his seat. Can’t risk his job anymore than he already has.
“It’s the least you can do.” Dennis is still standing, voice firm. “For my silence about the whole masturbation thing.”
In a quick motion, Mac darts his tongue out to moisten his dry lips. He's been panting, it seems.
His eyes fall down Dennis’ body.
Again, Dennis laughs. Mirthful, like a cartoon character. His voice is higher as he speaks. “Oh my god! Wow-“ he cuts off with a giggle.
Mac still can’t really lift his gaze from Dennis’ crotch, only half hearing his words.
“Wow,” he continues. “You know, people said you were a faggot, but I didn’t really believe them.”
That draws Mac’s attention.
Fire burns down his throat. He opens and closes his fists in his lap, can feel his eyes have blown wide.
Dennis’ teeth are bared down towards him. “I thought maybe you just liked doing my busywork, but it all makes sense now. Oh, Dee is going to be so jealous- you know, the only employee obsessed with her is the excommunicated priest-turned-janitor.” He runs a hand down his face. “At least mine is hot.”
Something shifts in Mac’s chest. A fog rolls over his mind, a smile blooms across his face. The words tumble out of his mouth, “You think I’m hot?”
He’s pinned with a stare that lodges knives into his skin. Dennis scoffs. “Oh my fucking god, you are so pitiful.”
Movements slow, like a cat, Dennis steps back from his desk and rounds its corner. Approaches Mac’s seat and takes up residence against the edge of the desk, feet kicked out to nearly bump against Mac’s.
His back is rigid in the chair. His muscles are taut, bees swarming under his skin, and he still can’t take his eyes off the ever-growing bulge in Dennis’ pants. Again, he pokes his tongue out to wet his lips, and Dennis visibly stiffens as he watches its progression.
“Fuck this.” Dennis grumbles, and his hands latch onto his belt.
Mac’s breath catches in his chest.
Before he can process it, Dennis’ pants are open. He’s got thin, white underwear on, which Mac glimpses for a moment before they’re shoved down and all he can focus on is the cock in front of him.
He can’t really see, the edges of his vision are turning black, so he leans forward.
A hand latches itself into his hair.
Fuck.
Mac’s heart has jumped up into his throat, and he pulls back, fighting to free himself from the hold. Cold fear pumps through his body, and his feet scramble on the floor.
Another laugh from Dennis echoes around the room.
“No, you really seem like you want to suck my cock, Mac.” He yanks on Mac’s hair, pulling him forward once again. Mac’s nose is shoved against the meat of Dennis’ clothed thigh. “Do you not know how?”
In response, Mac grunts, hands falling forward to brace himself above Dennis’ knees. The fabric of his slacks is smooth under his touch, expensive. He inhales sharply through his nose as his hair is tugged again, and picks up the scent of detergent.
Dennis coos. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. I’ll teach you.”
Breathing hard, Mac rolls his forehead back and forth against Dennis’ thigh. His mind is spinning. He can’t feel his legs. Panic is rising in his chest, but it’s not enough to propel him to his feet and out of the room.
There’s an itch, just behind his eyes. A curiosity.
What’s it taste like?
Once he feels long, strong fingers wrap beneath his chin, he loses any sort of fighting resolve. He sighs, quiet but still audible, and turns to knock his cheek against the side of Dennis’ erection.
He can hear Dennis’ breath hitch, just slightly.
And-
“Goddamnit.” Mac hisses to himself as his own dick starts to stir in his pants.
Then, he’s kissing up the side of Dennis’. Chaste, dry puckers along the length of it, like he’s been possessed. Listening to Dennis breathing above him. Suddenly reminded of the best blow job he’d ever received, from a girl named Carmen with a dick and a tongue piercing, and attempts to recreate the way she had gingerly sucked the tip of his cock into her mouth like it was a fragile lollipop.
He receives no reaction from Dennis. Worry blossoms in his chest, makes his hands start to sweat, and he can’t help it when he looks up. Wants to meet Dennis’ eyes, to see.
Am I doing it wrong?
When their eyes lock, Dennis grins with teeth. There’s a flush high on his face. His pupils are wide and dark.
It must be okay, then.
Mac’s heart rattles, he can hear it, and the armchair he’s sitting on squeaks slightly as he adjusts his angle.
The hand under his chin tightens. He moans at the feeling, which surprises him, making his mouth drop open further.
Dennis grabs a firm hold under his chin, holding his position. Blunt nails dig into his stubble.
Inch by inch, Dennis slides his hips forward, torturously slow as Mac’s lips stretch around him. He feels when it nudges towards the back of his throat, when he starts to choke, but Dennis does not pause.
“Shh,” Dennis soothes, both the grip on Mac’s chin and his hair growing tighter. “You’re fine.”
But, no, Mac really isn’t. His eyes are starting to water. He needs to cough, needs to breathe.
He looks up at Dennis, desperate, which is a mistake. Dennis’ face is blank, cold, save the toothy grin. In one smooth motion, he shoves his cock as far back in Mac’s throat as it’ll go.
Mac gags around it, the sound a weird clicking that makes his tongue spasm, and tears start to stream down his cheeks. He can’t breathe. His hands scrape helplessly against Dennis’ legs, utterly ignored.
Dennis picks up a short pistoning rhythm, hitting something in Mac’s throat over and over again. A groan blossoms from Dennis’ lips, and Mac feels it all the way down to his dick, which is hard, goddamnit, and tenting obscenely in his pants.
He hates the way the hand in his hair sends sparks down his spine. How the earthy taste of cock coats his tongue, makes him dizzy. Actually, he’s probably dizzy because he can’t breathe. Even his nose is useless, dripping snot.
“Oh, yeah.” Thrusting faster, harder, Dennis squeezes Mac’s head to the point it’s painful. Until Mac starts to see stars. Until spit drips down Mac’s chin and neck and probably onto the floor. Until Dennis is shuddering with a long sigh, coming down Mac’s throat. It’s a viscous sensation Mac could have never imagined.
Swallowing with desperation, Mac hardly tastes it, too busy being relieved as Dennis pulls away. Mac sags forward against Dennis’ thighs, breathing in choked gasps, sniffling and sort of crying as he remembers what it’s like to breathe.
A rattling above him alerts him to the fact that Dennis is righting himself and redoing his belt. Then, hands are finding his hair again, softly brushing through the gelled strands for a single moment before the touch is hard and shoving him away.
Collapsing into the chair, Mac’s eyes fall closed. He wipes his face with his sleeve.
He’s so hard it hurts. Just the feeling of fabric against his erection sends sharp twinges through his body. He drops one hand over it, just to relieve some of the pressure.
The sound of Dennis landing in his desk chair has Mac opening his eyes again.
They meet each other’s gazes as he does, Dennis sending him a fierce look that Mac is incapable of deciphering.
Silence falls over the room.
Mac clears his throat. “Um-“
“Keep the magazine.” Dennis interrupts him, motioning to the table by Mac’s elbow.
Vision hazy, Mac turns to pin his gaze on the Blueboy issue. His stomach flips over on itself.
“Um,” he tries again, hands twitchy where they rest in his lap, breathing hard and steady to will his erection away. “I got Predator 2 from Blockbuster. If you wanna, you know, watch it…”
A sharp laugh from Dennis has Mac jumping out of his skin.
“Oh, you are so sad.” Dennis waves in his direction, teethy smile in place. “I’m not gay, so, pass.”
Heat boils behind Mac’s eyes. “Me neither-“
“You know damn well-“
A rap on the office door cuts Dennis off. His eyebrows raise in a brief indication of surprise, before he pushes to his feet to walk over.
Mac does not watch him go, eyes on his lap. The bulge in his pants has lessened, mercifully.
“What?” Dennis barks out the door, opening it a crack. “I’m busy, Dee.”
A shrill voice meets Mac’s ears. “Dad said you can’t be in here with the door locked anymore!”
“It wasn’t!” Dennis spits back, throwing the door open wider. “I’m in the middle of a meeting. Can you fuck off?”
“I need those reports-“
“I’ll get them to you later.” Dennis ends the conversation with a curt shutting of the door, which makes Mac’s heart rate spike.
With a sigh, Dennis throws himself back into his chair, spinning around in it one time for good measure.
Again, silence between them, before-
“Fuck off, Ronald. I want those files this week.”
Fire licks at the edges of Mac’s consciousness, a retort on his tongue, but Dennis just turns to his computer, effectively ignoring him.
Snatching up the Blueboy, Mac rolls it up and tucks it into the waistband of his pants, before spinning on his heel and marching out of the room. He lets the door slam behind him.
When he gets back to his cubicle, all he can do is sink into his chair and let his head fall forward to rest on the cold surface of his desk.
“Fuck me,” he grumbles to himself.