It’s gala season, and Roman’s exhausted, and this gala is gonna suck like all of them do, and he is so, so fucking irritated at himself for what he’s managed to get himself into this time.
It was Gerri’s idea, after he almost fell asleep in his soup bowl at the last one of these things. Which he guesses is bad form, now that he’s officially representing The Waystar Foundation after the last little round of musical chairs (Russian roulette, more like) at the company stuck him with the honor this year. It sucks, but he’s doing his best to stay awake tonight, okay? He’s wearing a tux (which feels too small in the shoulders even though it looks great in pictures, and who looks like they’re playing dress-up in their dad’s suit now, Drew Russo from Vaulter?) and a “fun” peacock-teal silk bow tie, and the plug inside him feels fucking massive. It’s not massive. He could totally take a cock twice this size. But this is – kind of a lot, he has to admit. It hadn’t felt like a lot at first.
And seriously, he will go to the mat for the fact that, like most things they do, it was at least 50% Gerri’s idea.
She’d slid the box across his desk that afternoon with a look that clearly said, Do not open this now. “Here,” she’d said. “Maybe this will keep you awake tonight.” And Roman didn’t really know what he was expecting to find when she left his office and he lifted the top – coke? A 5-Hour Energy? Whatever the hell they give those guys in Special Forces to stay up 72 hours straight on missions, where it takes, like, a horse tranquilizer to take them down? But nope, there it was, the same plug he’d jokingly sent her “for a reward?” when she texted a sincere congratulations after the Vox Media deal went through, gold-plated and heavy and curved – “Gerri, you dirty old bird,” he’d half-laughed to himself, despite the fact that his cock was already filling out just looking at it.
It came with matching cuff links. He’d worn those, too. She’d had them engraved with three elegant letters, identical to the seal at the base of the plug: RRK. Roman Roy Kellman, he realized, tracing the letters with one fingertip. Fuck.
So, yeah, he probably should’ve jerked off before he got in the car, that’s clear now. He thought, perhaps naively, that it wouldn’t be this much of a distraction. (And also, Gerri’s kind of possessive about that, which he loves. She’s got him on a twice-weekly schedule for the most part, which he probably would’ve thought was way too infrequent before he realized exactly how it felt to be tied up and edged until he cried and begged and snotted all over himself, sniffling with teary eyes until Gerri finally allowed him to spill, untouched, all over the hard floor of her bedroom. Before he realized, in his own way, all the things a person could be.) But he’s realizing now, as he climbs into the car, that he should’ve broken that rule and asked forgiveness after the fact, because this is going to be.
The twenty-block ride uptown to the Plaza is a mere hair’s breadth removed from actual physical torture, with Gerri sitting next to him a full two feet away in the back of the Navigator, ignoring the shit out of his shallow breathing and wincing every time the driver slams the brakes and the jolting of the car makes him clench. He’s hard in his tight tuxedo pants when they arrive, and when he caught sight of the press line, he panics, feeling the plug slip and shift inside him. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Gerri mutters, “Let’s skip the step-and-repeat. We can take the back way in.” She gives him another sidelong glance with a wicked smile glimmering at the edges of her mouth and adds, “By the way, that suit’s too tight on you.”
“I know that. Yes. Thank you, Diane Von Fistenberg.” She shoots him a thrillingly reproachful glare for that one, looking hot as shit in her dark red dress. He’s so fucking full. He cannot think about anything but how fucking full he feels, the way the plug jostles with every step he takes, the weight of it inside him. God damn you, devil woman. Fuck. He angles himself behind Gerri as they slip in through the Buffett Entrance, so named for Warren, who abhors a step-and-repeat. Thank God for Warren Buffett, Roman thinks, for pretty much the first time in his life.
Once they’re seated at the Waystar Foundation table with all the other little no-name guests who get to tag along this year, Gerri seems determined to keep torturing him. In fact, she’s making intent, cerebral conversation with the winner of the Roman Roy Scholarship (“Awarded annually to one full-time MBA student with a demonstrated track record of innovative leadership and problem-solving who is pursuing a career in entertainment or the arts”) and ignoring the actual Roman Roy, who is seated next to her and trying to stay perfectly still. Actually, Roman would be pretty sure she’d completely forgotten about his predicament altogether, if her leg weren’t pressed firmly against his own beneath the table, her thigh up against his, pressing –
“Isn’t that right, Rome?”
“Shit – I mean, yeah, totally.” Roman grits his teeth. “Sorry, I missed the beginning of the conversation, what’s up?”
Gerri fixes him with a cold look that makes him clench around the plug inside him. “Shelby was talking about her business development internship with Shondaland last summer. She says she really learned a lot about the importance of investing in diversity in production roles.”
“Sorry,” Roman says, and he actually means it. “I’m out of it. God knows we could use your input on our hiring, like. Maybe we could start our recruiting process for executive-track positions outside of my dad’s nutsack.” The table laughs, and he heaves a sigh of relief. Dance, monkey, dance. Obligatory dumb-dumb nepotism hire self-deprecating joke for the night complete. He slumps back against his chair, and the plug shifts, knocking loose an audible whine he barely manages to stifle with his napkin.
Gerri’s knee knocks hard against his, and then her hand descends on his leg under the table. He knows it’s neatly hidden by the tablecloth but it still makes him freeze. What are you doing? he glares at her, but she’s nodding intently as Shelby explains how network diversity showcases work. This is maddening, he thinks, and also insanely hot. Her hand just sits there, small and deceptively heavy and hot enough that he can feel it through his pants, and Roman takes a deep, steadying breath. This is fine. This is nothing. “Investing in diverse talent both onscreen and off is actually the best thing you can do in entertainment right now,” says Shelby, and Roman mirrors Gerri’s approving nodding. “Audiences are hungry.”
“So hungry,” Roman says, and then breathes in sharply as Gerri’s grip on his thigh tightens. Fuck you, he tries to tell her in eyebrow Morse code, but she only nods again as her hand begins to move, slowly and maddeningly, up his thigh. Her fingers creep up, up, up, and then stop with another squeeze. It’s all he can do not to react, so off Shelby’s happy look of validation, he takes a breath and plunges right back into the conversation: “Waystar was an early investor in Jordan Peele’s production company,” he adds. “Did you know I produced Keanu?” Gerri’s hand stills, but as Shelby begins another meandering response, Gerri starts to stroke back down his leg, her touch feather-light this time. This is her way of keeping his attention where it needs to be, he realizes – not with chemical stimulants, but a good old-fashioned mental challenge. She knows he can only pay attention when he’s doing two things at once. The harder he tries not to come in his pants, the easier it is to follow the conversation taking place right in front of him.
Fuck. She’s so fucking good.
After about ten more torturous minutes, Shelby excuses herself to the ladies’ room, and the minute she’s out of earshot, Roman turns to Gerri with a hot face. “I know what you’re doing,” he hisses, and she smirks.
“What am I doing?”
“You’re doing your, I don’t know. Your MILF mind-fuck psychosexual waterboarding trick.” She quirks a brow, clearly amused, and Roman exhales sharply with frustration. “Point made. Geneva Convention violated. Can we go home?”
“Absolutely not.” And then her hand is gone from his leg as a white-jacketed waiter bears down on their table with a platter of salad plates. “You’ve got two more hours of his, kiddo.” Roman actually does let out an undignified hiss at that, as he slumps against the back of his chair and once again feels the plug slip inside him. As the table tucks into their cantaloupe and prosciutto, he slides his phone from his pants pocket and taps out a text beneath the edge of the table:
U r fucking evil
Gerri’s eyes flick to her phone, but she doesn’t react, just keeps up her thoughtful patter with the ATN executive seated directly across the table. Roman can’t help himself. He adds:
“I’m so sorry, these emails just won’t stop.” Gerri’s voice is apologetic as swipes her screen open. “Let me just put this on Do Not Disturb…” You’re talking back a lot for someone with a 24 karat cock inside him, comes her swift response in text, and then she’s turning her phone over and setting it face-down beside her martini glass as a dizzy, needy wave of dirty shame crashes over Roman, making his blood thrum. Then her leg is back, pressing hard against his, her foot trapping his against the floor as he tries to shift in his seat for a little relief. And all the while, Gerri is just sitting there with that placid, interested smile on her face, making polite and wholly present conversation, like it’s nothing.
Nobody’s paying attention to Roman, sitting up straight and chewing his food without tasting it, trying for all the world not to betray the intensity of everything he’s feeling: it’s physical, the sensation of fullness, sure, but even more than that, he feels – trapped. Like a butterfly pinned to a lepidopterist’s board. Gerri, ever prescient of the way he shifts and slouches in his boredom, will not allow him a second’s mental vacancy, and he has to wonder: is everyone else at this table in on the joke? Do they even suspect? Do they notice his ramrod-stiff posture, the way he hangs on Gerri’s every word, staring at her lips with darkly singular focus? Or do they just see what they’ve always seen: the spoiled prince of hate speech and rollercoasters, Thane of Shameless and king hereafter (here's hoping, anyway) and his – handler? (Faintly, images from the Westminster Kennel Club show rise to mind, and he bats them away. If he starts thinking about leashes and collars right now, he might actually come in his pants.)
By the time the cater-waiters return to clear the remnants of the third course, Roman is too on edge to think straight, achingly hard despite his best efforts at conversation. He can’t concentrate on anything but the solid fullness of the plug inside him and Gerri’s knee against his. He’s not comfortable. It doesn’t matter. He can’t understand why that’s so exciting, to be this far out of his comfort zone in a room full of people who all know him by sight, old friends and rivals and strangers alike. And he knows that Gerri would let him tap out if he really couldn’t take it any longer – all he’d have to do is cry uncle, excuse himself with a quip about needing to see a man about some new cufflinks, and she’d shrug and let him go and this could all be over. They’ve still got to make the rounds of the party, even after the meal is over. He doesn’t know how he’s going to make it through this.
The waiter places a menu in front of him, gold embossing on ivory card stock. Dessert. Beside him, Gerri shakes her head. “Roman, I’m sorry, I left my reading glasses in the car,” she says. Lies. “Would you mind reading the menu?”
He throws a baleful stare at her from beneath his eyebrows, but picks up the menu anyway. “Chocolate hazelnut soufflé with a warm amaretto sabayon,” he reads off, obedient to the bitter end, and then swallows a grunt as her hand descends on his thigh beneath the table once again. She holds his leg there, her hot palm desperately close to his cock, not close enough but so close, not allowing an inch of movement. Testing him. Keeping him eager. Fuck it. If Gerri wants a good show, that’s what she’ll get. Whatever the lady wants. “Brie and gouda cheese with dried apricots in Port Wine syrup, with Belgian endive and browned almonds,” he says, licking his lips. Bites the bottom one, just for show. “That sounds good. Uh, and there’s also a strawberry tart with Chantilly cream and,” he swallows, thrusting his knee up into her tight grip, “pistachios.”
“I’ll do the last one,” Gerri says, looking back up at the server, all business. “And an espresso, if that’s an option.” And with a single, smooth flick of her wrist, as the waiter turns to take dessert orders from the rest of the table, she slides her hand all the way up Roman’s leg, ghosting over his crotch, and for a split second –
Roman makes a wordless, strangled, wet sound.
– Gerri presses the heel of her palm against his cock, hard enough to make his vision white out, before withdrawing it entirely.
“You okay there, Roman?” Feigning concern, a light pat on his shoulder. He could kill her. He turns it into a cough, guzzles lemon water from the sweaty glass in front of him. His heated face, probably bright red, is likely adding credence to the choking cover story. “Just went down the wrong hole,” he says in a garbled voice, daring Gerri to raise a brow or suppress a smile at the word hole. But she doesn’t, of course she doesn’t, Lady Macbeth with the p-p-p-poker face of the century over here – he coughs one more time before falling silent.
“Never better,” Roman says to the table at large, all of whom have stopped their conversation to watch him struggle to draw breath.
And the rest of the evening slips past. “I think I’d like to make it an early night,” Gerri says decisively to the rest of the table, “I have a breakfast meeting tomorrow,” and Roman hastens to concur. “We can share a car uptown,” he says, unable to resist biting off the last two syllables with another dark, hungry look, saying, if you think we’re going all the way back to Chappaqua you’re out of your goddamn mind.
The ride to his apartment on Park and 78th – his pied-à-terre now, really, since he’s all but moved into her house in Westchester – is blessedly fast, the driver hitting every green light as the conspicuous silence screams between them in the backseat. Again, Gerri doesn’t touch him in the car, doesn’t even look at him. He stumbles over the threshold and into the foyer, the pressure of the plug inside him once more the only sensation he has room for in his head.
“Well,” comes Gerri’s voice from behind him, and then the sound of the door slamming shut. “How do you think that went?”
Roman feels like he’s got rice pudding for a brain. He kicks out of his dress shoes without bothering to unlace them, tugs the end of his bow tie until the knot collapses, shrugs out of his dinner jacket. “Fuck you,” he says to the entryway mirror in front of him as he starts on his belt. “You made your point.”
Gerri chuckles, low and lusty, but almost droll in a way. Like this is all some fun amusement to her, like a game of croquet before afternoon tea. The way she does every time he loses another game of, whatever this is, Weird Sex Chicken. She always calls his bluff, is the thing. “I will say you did well,” and her hands snake around him from behind to where his own, less nimble fingers are working on his buttons. His hips snap back against hers involuntarily, and wheezes as the plug sends another wave of pleasure through every last overstimulated cell in his body. She laughs again, shaking her head. “Look at yourself, Roman,” she instructs him. “Just look at yourself.”
He does. He lifts his eyes to his own reflection in front of him, takes it all in: his damp hair and sweaty brown, the feverish flush in his hot face and throat, extending clear down to his shirt collar, every button Gerri undoes revealing another inch of mottled scarlet skin. His mouth is slack, his pupils blown, his mouth hanging open as he rolls his hips back against Gerri’s again. He looks.
“Completely undone,” Gerri says casually, finishing his thoughts in that creepy way only she can, lifting one hand to cup his chin, keeping his eyeline steady. “Look at you. You just can’t help yourself.” Her thumb ghosts over his bottom lip, pressing down, and Roman parts them without thinking, letting Gerri slip her thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, eyes never leaving hers in their reflection as he sucks on her fingers. He lets the queasy heat bloom in his stomach, lets himself love this – love what she does to him – love her.
“Yeah,” he tries to say around her fingers, but Gerri just pushes them deeper, forcing his jaw even wider, drool running from the corners of his mouth before she takes her hand away entirely. He turns to face her, pants unbuttoned but still half-zipped, the hard outline of his cock apparent as he presses his forehead against hers. He waits, so fucking obediently so there, to be kissed.
They barely make it to the bed, barely make it past the living room couch, but Roman is desperate to get her off. He fumbles with the zipper at the back of her gown before she shakes her head reproachfully. “I just want,” he says, licking his lips, and she shakes her head.
“No, not after. Now. If you touch me right now, this, uh. This, this might all be over.” Roman stumbles over his own feet as he kicks out of his pants, falling back onto the bed with another keening whine. It’s the wrong thing to say, because Gerri advances on him with that cruel, cool smile, her red dress still resolutely zipped. He struggles out of his boxer briefs, his cock springing free, as dark red as his face and leaking. She must be absolutely soaked, he thinks, grapples with her hands to get her on top of him, wants her to ride his face until he’s really slimed up beyond recognition, but that look Gerri’s giving him is familiar and it tells him, No. It says, This is also for me. It’s the look Gerri gets when she wants to take him apart, the surgical curiosity. He doesn't get it, but - he gets it.
He attempts, again, to wriggle closer to her, and Gerri sighs. “For once in your life, Roman, stay still,” she says, and rolls him onto his front with what feels like effortless strength for someone two decades older and two inches shorter.
Roman buries his moan in a pillow, his voice unrecognizably reedy and desperate. He doesn’t feel like himself. His faculties do not feel entirely his own. He arches his back, thrusting his ass into the air, groaning again as Gerri toys with the base of the plug. “Fuck, Gerri, please,” he shudders, his voice muffled by the pillowcase as she plays with the base, fucking him idly with the plug. It’s hitting his prostate from this angle, and it’s almost too much, but just as the orgasm starts to build, she slides the plug out entirely.
He gasps at the sudden sensation of loss, the shock of emptiness when all night he’s been so full, but then there are two slick fingers at his entrance instead, pushing inside his stretched rim and meeting little resistance, fucking him lazily before pulling away. “Greedy, spoiled Roman,” Gerri says, her voice hot and molten. He feels her spread him wide, flushes with shame again at the cool drizzle of lube where he’s already slick and open.
“Yeah,” he manages to say. “I’m greedy. What else?”
“Shut your mouth, you greasy runt,” says Gerri, and drops a single kiss on the base of his spine before thrusting three perfect fingers inside him, rough and thoughtless and absolutely perfect.
Roman shuts his mouth. Roman shuts his mouth and just feels, feels the fingers on Gerri’s free hand skating down the back of his sensitive thighs, her fingers inside him thrusting deeper and deeper, stretching him, filling him. This is what Gerri wanted, her brilliant clever curious mind always wanting to crack him open, stretch him a little wider, see how much further she can push him. He can hear himself whimpering. He hates whimpering.
Gerri takes her time, undoing him. Her voice is as soft as her words are blunt and all the meanwhile her fingers are nimble inside him, twisting and thrusting. “You should see yourself squirming,” she says, and he keens, burying his head in the sheets. Her hands are so good, so smart, as useful as he is brainless right now. These are hands he can drown in, he thinks. He feels all of it. “Do you realize what you look like right now, Roman?”
Roman makes a stupid, incoherent sound, even for himself. He hears Gerri laugh again. “Please,” he says, with considerable effort, lifting his cheek from the sheets.
“Please – just. Gerri.” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for.
“Do you want to come?”
“Yes!” The word comes out like it’s being ripped from him. She’s stretching him still, working another finger in – he closes his eyes, breathless. Gerri doesn’t slow down, doesn’t ease up. She fucks him hard, unceasing, unforgiving, and he takes it, lets her work him and work him. He’s overwhelmingly, horrifically present. His mind is nowhere else, it couldn’t be if he tried. Every part of him, every flickering molecule of consciousness and concentration in his entire being, is located entirely where they’re joined, where Gerri’s got four perfect fingers inside him, ignoring his cock bobbing hard against his stomach. Roman wants to beg, but he can’t beg; all he can do is take everything she gives him, opening himself up to her, entirely for her consumption.
Her slick, perfect hand wraps around him, pumping him. He writhes against her, hips bucking up against her hand, and she laughs again, godlike and glittering.
“Okay, slime puppy,” she says, affection dripping from every syllable. She twists her fingers and Roman whines accordingly. “Okay,” she says again, “yeah, Rome, come for me,” and Roman’s brain function might be down to nothing but his body knows what she means, he knows those words in every cell, every atom. He’s desperate for her, a desperate slut just for Gerri, and they both know it. There’s no escaping himself here, no way to deflect with a joke or duck out the side entrance before the truth of himself comes out. They both know what they are. She knows what he is, and he’s all hers, all for her. He comes with a yelp, gasping and shuddering as Gerri fucks him all the way through it, all the way down onto the bed as his knees give out under him.
When he gets enough of himself back to open his eyes, Gerri’s got her dress off, finally, and she settles around him, close enough that he can finally the scent of her perfume against her skin. He tries to lift his head but she shakes hers. He feels wrung out, slick and used. Roman thinks, faintly, in the back of his mind where the fog has just begun lifting, that this still the best way a person can feel. “Thanks,” he mumbles into her neck, gropes lazily with his free hand until he can press it to her warm, wet cunt. He can’t imagine what he looks like, can’t imagine what she sees from her angle to get her this worked up. She’s canting her hips against his palm, grabs at his wrist to hold his hand steady. It doesn’t take much like this, Roman kissing her neck, sucking and swirling his tongue in lazy circles as he works her through a long, breathy orgasm.
“Thanks,” he says again when she’s finished. “Good conversation tonight.”
“Not bad,” she agrees, and he feels himself falling away.