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It was four fifty-five. Damen had stopped even seeing the letters on the screen; occasionally, he moved the mouse so no one would notice him staring at the blank monitor. He wasn’t hard, yet, but his body felt tight from chest to knees. Something hot and mobile pooled in his lower belly.
Five o’clock hit. The trickle of exits became a flood; people waved at Damen as they went past, some stopping to console him. He had such a demanding boss.
Laurent wasn’t demanding anymore, for the most part. He gave orders politely; he was gentle with the interns even when they screwed up. If he was in a bad mood, he hid in his office and asked Damen to tell people he was on a call. He’d never been the sort to make anyone stay late, but Damen had seen him, once, quite hypocritically, scold someone for still being there at seven-thirty. He saved the sharp side of his tongue for people who deserved it, and his small rebellions were deliberate, short-lived; Damen had– trained him, really, into acceptable behavior.
Now he really was getting hard. He didn’t really see the point of some of the stuff he’d read about– if he wanted a docile pet who only spoke when spoken to he wouldn’t be fucking Laurent– but he thought, sometimes, about taking a few days off and just– doing this, for the whole time, Laurent naked and wide-eyed and available. They could get a cabin somewhere, Wisconsin or the Ozarks, swim in the lake during the day, maybe, grill out on the back deck–
He couldn’t walk through the office with a hard-on. He counted to thirty with his leg muscles tensed, then opened the drawer, pulled out his little box, and went into Laurent’s office.
The blinds were pulled, showing a spectacular view of the lake, a heady purple against the gold-streaked sky. Laurent was facing away from all that, typing without apparent care, except for how his fingers stuttered, just a little, when Damen turned the lock firmly behind him.
Damen sat in the chair across the desk. He’d never thought of himself as a theatrical person, but he let the silence build in what probably did qualify as a dramatic pause, just to look at Laurent- at his hair, limned with light, a few strands tucked behind the shell of his ear; at the narrow shoulders, at the long, elegant fingers, moving ceaselessly with a steady clack-clack. Laurent appeared completely unaware of his existence.
Damen opened the box. It was cardboard, had once held pens; now it held more office supplies. Four large binder clips, and a smaller box of ordinary paper clips. He pulled out the remaining contents– an antiseptic spray he’d bought at a sex store and a packet of body wipes– and Laurent’s rhythm faltered again, barely perceptible.
Damen didn’t acknowledge him. He cleaned everything down with the spray and wipes, and tested the binder clips again on his finger. Again, not a very pleasant sensation, but roughly comparable to the clamps at the store.
The typing had stopped. “I would hope you’re not misusing company property,” Laurent said.
“I don’t know, Mr. deVere,” Damen said. He gave him his best shit-eating grin. “You’ll have to tell me afterwards.”
Laurent didn’t say anything. Finally– “I have to finish this email.”
“Of course, Mr. deVere,” Damen agreed. “You can take your clothes off first, though.”
They were looking at each other at this point, so Damen got to see Laurent’s cheeks darken. “I have to finish this email,” he said again.
“Huh,” Damen said, cocking his head. “Do you need clothes to type, Mr. deVere?”
Laurent stood up. He didn’t make a show of it– he never did– but his tie sailed over towards the couch. The shirt and pants he folded, because Damen had him trained, and he wasn’t wearing any underwear, because Damen had made him take them off at lunch. He stood there afterwards, glaring, the upper part of his lovely body glowing like the sun on the lake. Just the upper part, though– the desk was tall.
Damen pulled Laurent’s missing boxers out of his pocket and added them to the pile of clothes. “You can put those on the shelf, sir,” he said. “And turn up the thermostat a little.”
Laurent had the sort of looks that resisted being broken down into features– it was difficult to gaze explicitly at his shoulders, or his mouth, or his waist, without being distracted by the shining whole of him. Now, though, with him standing on his tiptoes to put the clothes on the shelf by the door, Damen’s focus was directed, not very respectfully, at his ass. He caught Laurent by the wrist as he went by on the way back, and tugged him to stand in between his legs, and turned him, hands on the soft skin of his hips, to get a better look. A faint redness from yesterday stretched across the middle, both cheeks; he could see the barely-visible outline of his fingertips at the top. It was the slightest bit warmer to the touch than the rest of the skin. He lined up his fingers with the mark he’d left and felt Laurent shiver under his touch.
“I have emails,” Laurent said. His voice was steady.
Damen spread his ass open to look at his hole, also still slightly red from yesterday. He brushed a thumb over it and got another shiver. “Yes, Mr. deVere,” he said. “Just turn around for a moment, we’ll get you squared away.”
Laurent didn’t move for a moment. When he turned, his face was set in bored lines. His nipples were roughly eye-level, pink and delicate and already hardening. “Well?” he said, when Damen didn’t move.
Right. They needed to be all the way hard for this; Damen rubbed a thumb over one, and then the other, playing idly until the skin wrinkled up. Laurent’s expression was smooth– it stayed that way as Damen picked one of the binder clips, carefully lined it up with the pink flesh, and let it close.
No reaction from Laurent, not even a stuttered breath. Well, they had time. Damen put the other one on, frowned a little at the sight, decided they’d look better horizontal, and then switched them, carefully depressing each handle, letting the flesh escape, lining it up the other way and letting it close.
Or did they look better the other way? “What do you think?” Damen asked. “Horizontal or vertical?” He hooked a pinky in one of the loops and tugged lightly.
“Whichever you prefer,” Laurent said, bending forward with the pull. His voice was even; his expression glasslike calm. He’d started to sweat.
“Hm,” Damen said. He let his hand come down Laurent’s side, took a moment to wrap his fingers around the soft place at the top of his thigh– and then crept between them. He was already mostly hard; Damen bypassed his erection to cup his balls, thumbing softly at the place the sac joined his body. An idle thought made his hand go to the remaining binder clips.
Laurent’s breath hitched.
Better not. Damen let go of him and stood up.
Laurent looked at his chest, and then drew his gaze lazily up to meet Damen’s, as though his height were an inconvenience. “Well?” he said.
“Let’s sit down,” Damen said.
They sat in Laurent’s chair. Well, Damen sat in Laurent’s chair. Laurent tried to perch on one of his knees, but Damen pulled him closer, got his back pressed to Damen’s chest, his ass settled firmly over where Damen was half-hard in his slacks.
Laurent started typing. It took him two tries to enter his password– Damen had the head of his cock between finger and thumb and was pinching, softly– but he got into his computer, and opened his email, and started to type.
It was mostly coherent. Damen caught a glimpse over his shoulder– someone from legal was being an idiot– before he pulled his gaze away. Laurent was squirrelly about employee privacy. Instead he played idly with the clips, and stroked the soft skin of Laurent’s stomach, and gave his cock occasional, loose strokes.
After awhile, Laurent stopped typing. “I’m done,” he said tightly.
“Hm,” Damen said. “You haven’t sent it.”
“I’ll send it tomorrow,” Laurent said.
If Laurent hadn’t sent it, he didn’t think it was adequate. “Would you like me to proofread it for you, Mr. deVere?”
Laurent shook. “I shouldn’t,” he said, something strange in his voice, and then, more firmly, “No.”
Damen hmmed again. He licked his hand and wrapped it more tightly around Laurent’s cock. “You sure?” he twisted the right clamp, ever so slightly.
Tightly– “Yes.”
“All right, sir.” Damen jerked him exactly how he liked– not too fast, steady, focused on the head. “You’ll have a chance to look at it yourself. I’ll take the clamps off once you come.”
Another shudder. Laurent didn’t say anything.
“They need about ten minutes off for every twenty minutes on,” Damen said. “According to google. So we’ll have a bit of a break once we start up again.”
Laurent’s hands were fists on the wooden desktop. His cock was leaking wet down over Damen’s fingers.
“Does that sound all right?” Damen asked. “Mr. deVere?”
Laurent grunted at him.
“Didn’t catch that, sir.” Damen kept his hand moving. “Do you think it’ll be too much for you?” He twisted the other clamp.
“I,” Laurent said, and came all over the underside of the desk.
He was almost silent with it, in the way he got sometimes, with only the shuddering of his body and the wetness on Damen’s hand showing he’d come at all. Damen made soothing noises at him and gathered him closer, kissed the top of his head, put a hand on his chest to feel the rapid rise and fall of it. With his other hand he carefully wiped down the desk, and Laurent’s stomach. Laurent let his head fall back against Damen’s shoulder, lax and helpless with orgasm, and Damen felt something stutter in his chest, like his heart had skipped a beat.
His phone buzzed. Right. Damen pulled the clips off carefully, both at once. He’d known there would be pain as the blood flowed back; Laurent didn’t react much, not yet. He pressed his palms flat over Laurent’s pecs anyway, to take the sting away, and kissed his head again because he couldn’t help himself. Laurent’s shampoo smelled like almonds.
They had ten more minutes. “You can actually send that email,” Damen whispered.
Laurent shook his head once.
“I could look at it if you like?”
“No.” Laurent shifted a little.
Damen held him still. “None of that,” he said, trying to sound stern but probably failing to hide the smile in his voice. And then Laurent’s slim hips felt so good under his hands– skin like silk, or satin, or something else soft and expensive– that he had to touch the rest of him, the inside of his thighs, the pale marble of his wrists. And then his stomach, soft; and then of course inevitably it was back to his nipples, already hard, a darker pink than usual. Damen tugged at them, ran his nails over them lightly, twisted them gently. Laurent’s chest rose and fell with determined regularity. When they hit ten minutes he lifted up the first clip and felt his breathing stutter, just a bit.
The clips went back on. Laurent was holding his breath against him. When he started jerking him off Laurent’s hips twitched helplessly into it and Damen had to rub back against him, stupid teenager-grinding under two layers of fabric, before he got ahold of himself. “Fuck,” he heard himself say, dazed, and then “stay still.”
Laurent didn’t really listen. Damen reached around him and took a firm hold of his balls, right where they met his body. Laurent made a noise and tried to close his legs; Damen dug his thumbnail in until they folded open obediently, which really didn’t decrease Damen’s desire to skip his plans and just fuck him, all fours on the couch. “Good,” he said anyway, because Laurent was good, he was perfect, and kept stroking with his other hand.
After the second time Laurent had come, Damen hoisted him to his feet. He was unsteady, relying on Damen to hold him up, and Damen got that weird feeling in his chest again, desire, almost, but for a dozen things at once; he wanted to roll Laurent over and soothe his nipples with his tongue, wanted to twist the clips until he was sobbing, wanted to tuck him into bed again, wanted to spank his ass until it was not just red, but bruised, blue and purple. He settled for pressing his lips one more time to the top of Laurent’s head, before folding him gently over the desk.
They kept the lube in the drawer. Damen opened him up gently. Laurent was always so tight, impenetrable, when they did this, but the two orgasms had done their work; he slipped in a third finger without much reaction other than Laurent’s head moving, dazedly, on the desk, and then pulled them out, added more lube and pushed them in again, just to see him trying and failing not to react. His back was starting to arch; he was red from the back of his neck all down his shoulders. Damen pulled his fingers out of him, paused to strip himself of everything but his boxers, and then picked him up again.
When the clips went on a third time Laurent made a small, hurt sound. Damen’s dick twitched in his pants. He’d thought to use the lube this time but Laurent was still leaking, wet down his shaft, coarse golden hair sticking to his skin. Damen jerked him once, loosely.
Laurent said “wait.”
Damen didn’t. “Yes, Mr. deVere?” he said, hand still moving.
Laurent didn’t say anything.
Damen was hard enough to hammer nails; the thin fabric of his boxers was not enough to prevent his cock from being firmly wedged between the halves of Laurent’s ass. He buried his face in the side of Laurent’s neck and twisted a clip until Laurent made a choked noise of pain. “All right, Mr. deVere?” he mumbled into the soft skin.
Laurent was clutching at the edge of the desk, veins standing out in the back of his hand. He didn’t answer.
“Mr. deVere?” Damen twisted the other clip. “Mr. deVere, is there an issue?” He let his hand drift, threateningly, down below Laurent’s cock.
Laurent shook once, hard. “’s fine,” he said.
Damen lifted his balls idly. “Are you sure, sir?” He rolled them in his hand. The hole beneath them was slick, inviting, leaking lube onto Damen’s thigh. He pressed two fingers in.
“Please,” Laurent said thinly. “Oh, please–” and he came again, untouched, body jerking.
It was mostly dry, just a brief dribble of come, and didn’t spurt enough to hit the desk. This time when Damen got Laurent up he turned him around, stopping to kiss his sweat-damp forehead, and boosted him up on top of the desk. Laurent’s legs sprawled bonelessly out; he looked at Damen with dark, bottomless eyes and made another small noise when Damen pulled the clips off.
Damen rubbed his nipples soothingly; that turned into Damen licking his nipples soothingly, which turned into Damen sucking on his nipples, not soothingly at all. They were red at this point, and hot in his mouth. Laurent’s body was tense and limp by turns; his breathing was ragged. When Damen pulled back to blow cool air across his chest he shivered despite his sweating. Damen could feel himself leaking into his boxers. Almost.
Ten minutes hit. Damen pushed himself up.
When the clips went on the fourth time, Laurent started to cry.
Damen bit back a groan. They were small, sniffling, quiet tears– he had to kiss Laurent’s slack mouth, lick a tear from his cheek. Kept his back arched so he didn’t tweak the clips. “Sweetheart,” he said, into Laurent’s skin. “Ah, sweetheart.” Laurent’s eyes were bluer, pink rimmed. “Sit up for me, honey, you can do it.”
Laurent did. He was so good. He sat up and he stood, shaking, leaning on Damen, while Damen kicked off his boxers, and pulled the little box he’d brought with him over from the other side of the desk.
He opened the box of paperclips. One-handed; the other was wrapped around Laurent. He’d turned them into a chain at his desk; now he pulled it out of the box, grabbed the two remaining binder clips, dumped everything in front of Laurent’s chair, and sat down, tugging Laurent with him.
He sat him on his cock. Laurent made more noises when the head breached his hole; Damen leaned back so he could look, watch the lube-shiny rim stretch around himself. Fuck. Laurent’s legs were shaking; he had to hold him up by the hips, shoulder muscles straining, and lower him slowly, let the slick pressure envelope him a millimeter at a time. Laurent’s hole fluttered at him weakly; when Damen bottomed out he clenched down so hard it was almost painful, and Damen’s hips jerked once, twice, without permission, before he stilled himself.
“Fuck,” Damen said again. They were both breathing hard. He had a plan. He leaned forward enough to hook his chin over Laurent’s shoulder– the change of angle made them both groan– and fumbled the remaining binder clips. They clamped securely onto the overhanging edge of the desk, roughly the same distance apart as the ones on Laurent’s nipples. Then he picked up the long chain of paperclips and split it down the middle, so he had two shorter ropes.
Laurent saw. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, please, oh–”
Damen fucked up into him, because he had to, and stilled himself only with great effort. If Laurent had still been able, he would have been clenching, wriggling, trying to get Damen to fuck him like that instead of following his plans– but he was tired, gentled, wrung out already. He only whimpered, softly, as Damen hooked in the chains. One end into one of the clips on the desk, and the other into one of the clips on Laurent’s nipples, until two chains stretched taut between Laurent’s chest and the desk.
Laurent was clenching and unclenching, his legs jerking, his cock red and half-hard. Damen panted in his ear, then had to bite at the lobe, soft between his teeth. “Make yourself come,” he said into it. “No hands.”
Laurent sobbed once, out loud. Damen groaned and bucked up into him again, jerking his nipples against the clips, the chains gone tight.
“Uh–” Laurent’s feet kicked. They couldn’t really touch the ground unless he strained, Damen realized dazedly. Perhaps he’d have a harder time with it than he’d thought. “I–” he found the carpet with the ball of one foot, lost it again when Damen had to jerk up into him.
“Shh,” Damen made himself say. He kissed Laurent’s head, ran a hand soothingly up his back to his nape. Reached behind him to lower the chair, just half an inch, enough for Laurent to get toes on the carpet. “Go ahead.”
Laurent took three loud breaths. His hands were braced on the desk. He lifted one to wipe roughly at his face. After a moment, bracing himself, he lifted up sharply, and fell back down.
“Good,” Damen said.
Laurent did it again, and again. He was feverishly hot. Damen couldn’t help his hands roaming; the slim waist, the straining legs, the flare of his ribs. When he toyed with one of the clips on a tender nipple, Laurent collapsed into his lap like his strings had been cut.
“Go on,” Damen coaxed.
Laurent tried. His next push raised him only an inch or so, just enough to stretch the chains against his nipples, and he went down like his legs had gone out from under him. He sobbed as Damen’s cock rammed into him.
“Laurent,” Damen rasped. He was trying for scolding; it sounded desperate instead. His legs muscles kept twitching, the desire to rut up into Laurent’s body barely contained. “Do it,” he said, and barely recognized his own voice.
Laurent sobbed. He was sweating, his hands twitching aimlessly on either side of the clips attached to the desk. “Please,” he said. “Please help me.”
Damen almost came; he had to hold his breath until the wave passed. When his vision cleared he found he’d leaned his forehead into Laurent’s sweaty hair. His chest felt soft like a bruise. He cupped a hand around Laurent’s marble-white throat and tugged him back, felt his pulse thrumming under his palm. It was an awkward angle to kiss him at, but he did, tasted salt on his red mouth. Laurent was twitching at the stretch on his nipples. “All right,” he got out. “I’ll help you.”
He took hold of Laurent’s hips. Up and down, working together, his shoulders and the trembling efforts of Laurent’s calves. He found Laurent’s prostate and worked his cock against it until Laurent trembled, and moaned, but didn’t come.
“Please,” Laurent was saying. His hands were fluttering again, off the desk and back down. “Please will you–”
“You can do it–”
“Please I can’t, I–”
“Sweetheart,” Damen groaned. He was sweating too. “No hands.”
“I–” Laurent shook again. A moment of silence. “I’d have let you,” he said.
“Wh–” Damen fucked into him again– “what?”
“I’d have let you,” Laurent said. “L-look at the email.”
Email. “...okay,” Damen said.
“I–” Laurent ground himself down. He didn’t seem to have caught Damen’s tone. “It’s– secret, it’s con–confidential, I’d have let you–”
“You’d have let me look,” Damen said, slow– and then, realizing, “because you aren’t thinking clearly, are you, Mr. deVere?”
Laurent made a desperate noise. His head jerked in a nod.
“Not thinking clearly,” Damen said again. Not thinking clearly. Laurent, brilliant Laurent, wasn’t thinking clearly. “Because you’re distracted, aren’t you, sir?”
“No,” Laurent said. “No, I’m–”
“You’re distracted,” Damen said. He was fucking him in steady rhythm. The words were coming out of his suddenly-dry mouth without input from his brain. “All the time now, aren’t you? Clever Mr. deVere, supposed to be running this company, but you’re just at your desk planning how to get your hole stuffed up, aren’t you, sir? Sitting in your meetings dreaming about getting fucked? You should quit your job, honey, this is what you’re good at, I’ll take you home, keep you tied to my headboard, you can play with your cunt all day and keep it warm for me, you’ll let me do whatever I want, won’t you–”
Laurent made a noise like ripping paper, his back straightening, every part of him straining in a straight line upwards. He came, completely silently. Damen buried his face in his neck and followed.
Damen kept wipes and paper towels and washcloths in Laurent’s drawer. He got him laid out on the couch and wiped him off gently, occasionally stopping to kiss the places he cleaned; the delicate arch of Laurent’s ankle, the tender inside of his knee, the soft places on his thighs and belly. His cock, quiescent against his thigh. Kissing his bright red nipples turned into licking; when Laurent started to cry again he pulled away, crooned apologies at him, wiped his face and kissed his mouth, his forehead, the precious point of his nose. Water, trickled carefully into his mouth. A drop ran down Laurent’s chin and he flicked it away with his thumb.
He should be getting up; his knees were already hurting. Instead he found himself leaning forward, aware of Laurent’s gaze on him, and resting his head carefully on his chest. Damen closed his eyes, listened to his breathing, his slowing heartrate. Endorphins faded eventually; gradually, the awareness of what they had done faded in. And then faint embarrassment, as he remembered what he'd said.
“Are you all right?” he heard himself say. He flinched when he heard it; Laurent never responded well to that question.
Nothing for a moment; then Laurent shifted under him, a slow movement. He felt a hand in his hair, slow, new, tentative.
“I like your hair,” Laurent whispered. “The curls.”
Damen opened his eyes. It was half-dark in the room; the light had faded, while they fucked, and he’d only turned on the lamp. But he could tell Laurent was looking at him. “Yeah?” he said, lamely.
“You’re very,” Laurent said, “attractive.”
Damen felt his shoulders loosen. A little furl of pleasure ran through his chest. “Oh?”
Laurent swatted him, hummingbird-gentle. “Yes,” he said.
Damen hid his smile in Laurent’s stomach. He knew Laurent could feel it against his skin. “So are you,” he said eventually, turning his head.
Laurent hummed at him. The room was still, shadowed at the corners, the two of them in a little pool of golden lamplight. “Do you want some water?”
“Sure,” Damen said, taking the bottle. It annoyed him to have to pull away from Laurent; he compromised by throwing an arm over him. “Can I walk you home?” he asked, aiming for casual.
“In a minute,” Laurent sighed. He shifted meaningfully. Damen climbed onto the couch, and wriggled into place, and held him. He kissed the top of his head.
Outside, a soft rain started.