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When his coworkers were hovering about in the hall outside the boss’s office door, it was the inner teacher’s pet in Dwight that wanted to tell them they should stop messing around and just get back to work. But he was no longer in middle school, and as it stood, his conscience was straddling the line between telling on them and joining in. As much as he wanted to cause as little stir as possible at what was now his longest-held job, he did want to get home sometime before the cows came home to roost, or however the saying went. After nearly ten hours at work, his brain matter was starting to get a little frothy.


Min of IT, Meg from customer service, and David from supplier relations were pacing around the mahogany portal to the boss’s office like bulls in the arena. They looked as exhausted as Dwight felt as he wandered up, carrying a folio full of contracts to deliver.


“What’s going on?” Dwight asked softly, and was scarcely acknowledged. The three of his coworkers were glowering at the door, circling, like sharks considering their prey.


“This has got to stop,” Min announced, clutching her phone so tightly it might’ve folded in her fist. “It’s nearly seven.”


“It’s been like this the last five nights,” David added. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his hair was falling from its neatly gelled coif as he dragged his palms down his face.


“It’s only so long I can make myself look busy,” Meg agreed, wringing her wrists. Her hair, which always fell in smooth plaits on her shoulders, was starting to fray loose at the ends.


Ah, so that was it. The new CFO, Mr. Evan MacMillan, was notorious for staying late into dinnertime and sometimes long past it, while expecting his employees to do the same. Their contracts accorded optional overtime, but trying to slip out early when the boss was making it clear the work day warranted another few hours was just too unbearably awkward. No one was happy, but no one was brave enough to face the man, who was a muscular, glowering, scar-riddled, colossus with a countenance so dark it sent a chill up the spine.


Well, maybe that was an exaggeration: Dwight, in fact, appreciated the new boss’s no-nonsense attitude and firmness of character—it sure beat out the wishy-washy, head-in-the-clouds nonsense of his last employer.


This was a good job, really. And one that he did not intend to risk.


His friends seemed to have other plans, however.


“There’s only one thing to do,” Min announced, firming her jaw, “someone has to seduce him.”


Her cohorts nodded in agreement with the firmness of her tone before realizing sharply what she’d actually said. Queue wide-eyed stares and three pairs of eyes training on the diminutive girl.


“Not me,” she clarified, as if that made it better.


To Dwight’s surprise, Meg nodded slowly, and then more animatedly, her green eyes brightening with excitement. “Yeah, yeah!” She raised her pointer finger. “We just need to find the right person to do it…”


Meg scanned the hallway, and at that moment arrived Kate, the infinitely patient HR rep. She’d put an end to this lollygagging, for sure, Dwight thought with brief relief, only to be dismayed when Kate joined right into the fray like she’d been there from the start.


“Whachy’all doin’?” she asked, tugging at the lanyard that encircled her neck and rested beneath her blond curls. Meg sized the woman up like she was a buck for hunting, counting her points.


“Wanna try to charm the boss into letting us leave?” Meg asked, in that guileless way of hers, and Kate’s eyes went wide a moment before she chuckled.


“Sure,” Kate laughed, “I mean, won’t be the worst thing I’ve done to leave early.”


Dwight wanted to comment on the irony of an HR rep. condoning such underhanded behaviour, but he kept his mouth closed. Surely, she was joking.


“Not like, for real,” Min clarified, shaking her head while eying Kate seriously, “just enough, though.”


Kate nodded, fluffing her hair.


“It’ll work, I see it all the time,” Min went on, “in like, dramas.”


Dwight let out a chuckle, and then realized no one else was laughing. He looked at David, hoping to perhaps commiserate—but found the man with his arms crossed, deep in ponderation.


“You just walk in there, like, ‘workin’ hard again, huh?’” Min said in a sweet voice that did not match the menace she usually portrayed.


“Yeah! Then like, ‘must be tired. Sure you’re lookin’ forward to gettin’ home, eh, Mr. M.?’” Meg mimed strolling through the office by making a circle in the hall, leaning over an invisible desk, boobs-first. Her voice was soft and sensual, missing her typical sharpness and attitude.


“Right!” Min agreed, “make him think it’s his idea.”


Dwight watched the scene, incredulous. The folio in his hand was going colder with each second he watched the strange display. He looked back and forth between Meg and Kate, to see the latter deep in consideration and nodding seriously.


“Yeah, yeah!” Kate replied excitedly. She pulled the top two buttons of her blouse open and the hem of her pencil skirt up by the same number of inches. Dwight palmed his forehead, wondering how many times she’d done this.


“Then I’m like, y’got any plans for the night, sugar?’” she said, bending forward a little at the waist, pushing her bum up and her chest forward. Dwight peeked through his fingers, half-amused and half-mortified.


David, who had been nodding sagely, arms crossed in the deepest concentration, suddenly lifted his pointer finger to say, “drop the cutesy name. That’ll sound too fake.”


Meg and Min both nodded in agreement like overenthusiastic birds.


Et tu, David? Dwight shook his head and went to push through the crowd of them, papers tucked tight into his chest. “Yeeeah, I don’t think I wanna be here when this all goes horribly wrong,” he said. David snatched him by the shoulders from behind and held him still.


“Relax, mate,” he said in Dwight’s ear, turning him bodily to watch Meg knock on the office door. “I’m sure you wanna get home and do your laundry, or whatever it is you do on a Friday night.”


Dwight watched in horror as Kate called through the door, and when a low voice returned, “come in,” opened the portal and slipped inside into the yawning space, then, was gone.


The three remaining shared fearful yet hopeful glances with one another, for a long, miserable five minutes, and it became so silent that Dwight could hear the tick of his wristwatch. Finally, Kate re-emerged. Min sprang to greet her, but from the sunken expression on Kate’s face, it was apparent she was not successful.


“Didn’t work,” she said, face falling, looking a mix of disappointed and confused, “he barely even noticed me.”


Min looked similarly downtrodden, but quickly firmed her resolve. Dwight tried to sneak away but David pulled him back by the shoulder.


“We can try again,” Meg insisted, “maybe another tactic.”


In that moment, Jane, a senior in HR, came by, hefting a stack of papers from the copier.


There she is,” Kate greeted, hovering around her supervisor like a duckling at her mama’s feet, “think you can seduce MacMillan into letting us leave?”


Jane made a sound of disgust, nose crinkling in distaste. “How about you just get back to work, huh? I’m sure the time will fly by.” She pushed past Kate, nudging her with her elbow.


Min got to her feet, then, and pursing her lip, looked at Jane. “Think you can’t do it, huh? I get it. I guess you’re kinda getting past that age...”


Jane bristled, her shoulder in her blazer visibly twitching. She turned on her heel, and then stomped towards the small girl.


“No, no, it’s fine,” Meg added with a smirk, “if you’re too mature for this, you don’t have to do it.”


Jane suddenly put on her best angry smile, the kind she used to settle disputes and the kind that made Dwight’s hair stand on end. She unbuttoned her blazer and revealed her ample bosoms nearly spilling from her shirt, and dragged up the waist of her slacks, smiling dreadfully at the younger women the whole while. She shoved her stack of photocopies into Meg’s arms and knocked on MacMillan’s door.


Dwight simmered in his jail of David’s ample arm muscles, putting his hand over his face and peeking through his fingers as Jane went into the office. She came out two minutes later, practically fuming, snatching up her papers again and stomping off.


“Didn’t work?” Meg asked, dejected, and Jane just shook her head, grumbling to herself.


“Who else can we try?” Min asked. She started clicking through something on her phone: the company directory, sorted by most seductive and eligible, perhaps? Dwight thought, heart pumping loudly.


“You’re going about this all wrong,” David announced, suddenly, and releasing Dwight, rolled up his sleeves over his broad forearms. The silk tightened neatly over his biceps, which he flexed until they bulged. He slicked back his hair with one hand and stomped towards the office door. Before going through, however, he turned and pointed a finger at Dwight. “Keep an eye on ’im so ’e don’t tell on us.”


“I-I’m not going to tell on you!” Dwight spluttered. Meg and Kate stood close enough to box him into the wall and Dwight began to sweat. He was honestly becoming more and more invested in this plot, though he was still certain this was going to go horribly wrong, and they were going to get written up, or worse, scolded. He’d learned a painful lesson at his last job, and that was that it was best to just keep your head down and work rather than scheming to change things beyond your control. He wanted to tell his coworkers as such, but, on the other hand, he was enticed by the prospect of getting home…


A few minutes later, David reappeared, shrugging. “I dunno,” he said, “I used all me best moves.”


“What did you do?” Kate asked, and David demonstrated flexing his arms, pushing out his chest, and pretending to drop something so he could bend over dramatically to retrieve it.


“Oh, that’s good,” Meg agreed seriously.


Min, on the other hand, looked wild-eyed, a girl too invested in her scheme to back out now. “There’s gotta be something. What haven’t we tried?”


“I could go find Adam,” David said, looking back and forth down the hall, considering in which direction he might find the handsome accounts manager.


“Ooh, an excuse to find Adam,” Meg teased, and David frowned at her.


“Oi,” he spluttered, “I’m just saying, if we want to try something different. Maybe the boss’s into nerdy types?”


Min waved her hand. “Adam would never do it, anyway. Although, if we’re gonna try nerdy…”


She turned her gaze on Dwight, and her dark brown eyes were so full of devious glee it almost made him weak in the knees. He looked back and forth between his cohorts, who seemed to be in agreement with Min’s silent pact.


“Oh, no, no, no,” Dwight stammered, squeezing his papers against him like a shield. “I’m not—I really—”


“Yeah, I can see it,” David said, crowding towards Dwight, “opposites attract, maybe?”


Min mused, “in dating sims, there’s always the shy, nerdy one who’s somehow also really popular.”


“Yeah, it’s not the worst idea ever,” Meg concluded.


Dating sims? Opposites? What on earth were they talking about? Dwight shook his head frantically and started to back away, gaining speed until he was just about ready to break into a run, and David’s hands were on his shoulders again. The grip was inexorable, and David pushed Dwight back into the fray, bringing him closer and closer to the office door while Dwight struggled and tried to dig his heels into the carpet.


“No, really, guys, I’m not—there’s no way,” Dwight complained, realizing he was cornered. If he yelled for help, he’d have to explain the situation to whomever came, and he’d much rather not let Ace or Ash, the hotshot loudmouths from sales, in on this scheme, or make his colleagues in IT Jake and Claudette known to this absurdity and lose what semblance of respect they might’ve had for him. He lowered his voice to a whisper-hiss. “Seriously, guys? Let’s just go back to work, okay, this is ridiculous. Trust me, it’s…it’s a bad idea to—”


“It’ll be easy,” Min encouraged, “just play up the whole innocent and naïve thing—like you’re doing right now. If we’re lucky, he’ll feel sorry for you and let us all go.”


“I believe in you,” Kate said, and strangely enough her confident voice it didn’t have the impact on Dwight that it normally did.


“Don’t screw this up!” Meg added in a sing-song manner.


“Give ’er,” David urged, before shoving Dwight into the office door and knocking loudly on his behalf.


“Yes?” rose a voice from beyond the portal, one that came through grit teeth.


Dwight’s heart pounded as he gawked at the mahogany, and David nudged him sharply in the back. There was a long, awkward moment of staring, open-mouthed, until Dwight, realizing he was cornered, got out, “uh…c-can I talk to you about something?”


The deep voice answered in the affirmative and David opened the door for Dwight, pushing him inside. Dwight stumbled through the door and heard it shut behind him with a definitive slap.


Dwight went still and all sound left his ears. He wasn’t often in this office—once or twice, maybe, and certainly not recently. When the CFO wanted him—not that he wanted him, specifically, no, but when he needed a job done—he’d come along to the department himself and ask. He was no-nonsense, a straight-forward leader; nothing like the awkward Dwight who just nodded and stammered as the boss explained the task. Right now, it seemed little different: MacMillan was seated at his desk, typing at breakneck pace, his fingers slamming down into the keys with fervor, his hard, silver gaze directed at the screen and nowhere else. He wore a bespoke suit in a modern cut, with a steel-grey shirt and tie under a pitch-black jacket that struggled over his wide shoulders, pulled taut at the seams.


“Fairfield,” MacMillan acknowledged, not looking up. “What is it?”


Dwight swallowed hard, the feeling like trying to bring down a jagged stone. He weighed his options: the first was the truth, which would have him stammering out a “sorry to bother you; they made me do it!” and looking like a complete coward and fool; the second was to play along. And God help him, Dwight was a team player. He stared for a long minute, playing with the corners of the folio, scuffing his feet on the carpet, before getting out,


“I-it’s getting awfully late.”


MacMillan raised an eyebrow, though he didn’t stop his work to address him. “And I suppose you want to go home?”


Dwight thought about his answer for a moment. He realized he would have to play the situation carefully if he wanted a certain outcome, though right now, the outcome he wanted was a tie between convincing the boss to let them go home and getting the hell out of here unscathed. He decided to go slowly.


“Well, yes,” Dwight replied, “I mean, everyone does.”


MacMillan stopped typing, but went immediately into scribbling something down on a scheduler on his desk. “We’ve got a project up for renewal this week. I, for one, intend to take that seriously.”


Dwight nodded quickly. “Of course.” He pondered carefully his next words. “But people perform better when they’re well-rested; that’s just a fact.”


“I suppose.” MacMillan sneered, then added, “you’re all welcome to go home whenever you please. I’ll be staying a few more hours yet.”


Dwight tilted his head. Well, that’s not how it worked, did it? This was what he hated about the corporate scheme: things weren’t just laid out in easy-to-read rules. It wasn’t like a survival scenario, where you either completed your objectives or died; there were so many nuances in between. Sure, they could go home now, and with explicit permission, but next time it came to promotions, they’d all be on the bottom of the pile for ducking out while the boss stayed in. He frowned and looked down at his feet, then started to step closer to the boss’s desk.


“You don’t have any plans for the evening?” Dwight asked, curiously, and MacMillan huffed a response in the negative.


Dwight nodded. Might as well go all in, if he was being made to play this game. He took a deep breath. “Well, I do. I have a…date.”


MacMillan didn’t reply and just kept scribbling in his planner. The scritch of the pen was obnoxious, but not as obnoxious as the voice in Dwight’s head asking him what the hell he was thinking.


He was in it, now. It was all those guys’ fault.


“Yeah,” Dwight continued, “he’s a…really great guy. Older guy. Tall, strong. And rich.”


MacMillan paused, looking up at Dwight through narrowed eyes. “Is that so?”


Dwight’s face flushed. He had to come up with something; why was this the first thing that came to his mind? He thought about his colleagues outside, waiting anxiously for his efforts to pay off and steeled himself, shifting his gaze from the armour-piercing stare of MacMillan and to the window behind the man, which admitted a splendid view of a pink and orange sunset over the downtown core.


“Yeah,” Dwight went on, looking wistfully out at the sunny hues, “we met at a bar.” Dwight flinched; he hadn’t been willingly to a “bar” in years. “Turns out he owns a ton of real estate in Haddonfield. I don’t usually meet powerful guys like that, so.”


MacMillan’s brow twitched; Dwight couldn’t tell if it was from annoyance or intrigue. What was he even doing? He really should’ve come in here with a game plan. Not that he had any time to come up with one!


“Dwight,” MacMillan said firmly, drawing Dwight’s trembling gaze back to him. He had his elbows on the desk, leaning forward with a severe scowl on his face. “Why are you telling me this?”


Dwight blinked, his lashes fluttering. “I…I was just hoping I could get your permission to leave so I wouldn’t be late.”


“For your date.”




“It has nothing to do with your friends milling around outside my door?” MacMillan asked.


Dwight felt his heart start to speed up under the scrutiny. He was almost believing his own fantasy, worried he was going to miss his date with an imaginary older millionaire. And even though his friends had pushed him into this, he wasn’t about to sell them out, no matter how ridiculous their plans were. Meg, Min, David—he wouldn’t give the boneheads up for a second. “Nope.”


“So, you just came in here to tell me about your date with a rich, older man?” MacMillan pried, his voice very low, and Dwight’s heart gave a twinge of fright.


“I-I should just go,” Dwight said, then, and started to head back to the door. MacMillan stood up from his desk, and with his tremendous strides beat Dwight there, boxing him in against the doorframe.


Dwight squeezed the folio tight over his heart as he looked up at the statuesque MacMillan. He was a head taller, and as wide in the shoulders as two of Dwight, and standing so close that Dwight could smell his scent: no cologne, but just a faint, masculine sweat and hardy soap.


“Now, why on earth would you feel the need to tell me this?” MacMillan asked, staring hard at Dwight. He planted an elbow on the door so he could lean in closer, until his forehead was nearly pressed to Dwight’s.


Dwight swallowed hard. He could see the way MacMillan nearly broke out of the seams of his suit as the shoulders flexed before his eyes. “No reason. I just wanna get home before sundown, is all.”


“So the ‘date’ is a lie?” MacMillan asked immediately, flattening his palm against the door and sliding it down until it was level with Dwight’s waist, not touching him, but holding just there, caging him in.


“N-no!” Dwight yelped. Why was he even trying to defend this thing he’d made up? Why not just concede?


Maybe because he felt like if he gave a single inch around MacMillan, right now, he’d be eaten right up.


“So, what were you planning on doing on this date with this rich, older man?” MacMillan continued to interrogate, and Dwight was getting a funny feeling in his stomach that he wasn’t being…threatened, per se. Not with punishment of a corporate nature, at least. “Were you gonna put out?”


Dwight flushed, his cheeks turning rosy in seconds. “Th-that’s really not any of your business.”


“I guess not,” MacMillan replied.


The look MacMillan gave him was so wily and powerful that Dwight couldn’t be under it anymore and turned around, reaching for the doorknob. With his back to MacMillan, he realized he was in a far more vulnerable position. MacMillan put his hand on Dwight’s shoulder, the weight of it warm and firm.


“Go home, Fairfield,” the boss insisted, bemused, “I know you don’t have any ‘date’.”


Dwight stiffened like a tree. He didn’t know what came over him, then, but his face turned red with anger rather than embarrassment, and he turned on his heel in a shot.


Between David’s insistence on his lack of social life, and Min’s description of him as “the nerdy type”, and now this dismissive appraisal, something was strained to breaking in Dwight.


“How do you know?!” Dwight snapped, and immediately ducked back when he saw the stormy look on MacMillan’s face. He pulled back against the door, but continued to glare up at the man who towered over him.


“You’re really sticking to this story, hmm?” MacMillan asked back, and reached down, flicking his thumb noisily against Dwight’s belt buckle.


Dwight’s glare narrowed. “What does it matter to you, anyway?”


“It doesn’t,” MacMillan murmured, “as if I should care who you spread your legs for on a Friday night—”


Dwight snapped. He threw his papers on the ground and shoved MacMillan in the chest, with enough force to stumble him backwards. He briefly considered his own mortality when MacMillan grabbed his wrist and held it with the strength of a steel vice, but he wasn’t about to be cowed. People always had their assumptions about him, and he was tired of it. Maybe that’s why he’d chosen this particular story. Maybe that’s why he was willing to lose another job to take down another arrogant boss a few pegs.


“You have no right over other peoples’ lives,” Dwight argued, jabbing a finger into MacMillan’s solid chest, until the second wrist was snatched up as well and held with the other. “This is a job, okay? A contract, that’s all. An exchange of services. You don’t get to hold other peoples’ lives over them like it’s some sort of game.”


MacMillan looked stunned, like he wasn’t used to being talked back to, ever. “Is that so?”


“Yeah,” Dwight continued. A lot was coming up all of the sudden. Things he’d wished he could say to someone else: to every boss who thought the world revolved around him and others were just playthings. “You don’t know a thing about your workers. About me.”


He glared the man down, looking up at the stolid figure through his crooked frames, panting slightly with the effort, heart racing like he’d run a marathon—until MacMillan snatched him by the chin and kissed him.


Dwight’s protest was lost to a persistent tongue slipping through the gape of his lips and diving into his mouth. He grabbed MacMillan’s lapel with his freed hand, pulling as hard as he could as his knees grew weak and his head started to swim with the force of his pulse. MacMillan pulled away only to draw him into another kiss, and a third, until Dwight could hardly stay on his feet and couldn’t quite tell what the hell was happening.


When he finally pulled away, MacMillan stared at Dwight before seizing him around the waist and drawing him close.


“Alright, how about you show me what you had in mind for your mysterious date,” MacMillan panted, swiping a drop of spit from Dwight’s chin, then dragging his hips against his own.


“I-I don’t have to prove anything to you,” Dwight contended, and found himself being hoisted up off of his feet. He helped the movement with a little spring off the floor, and then wrapped his legs around MacMillan’s waist, and the man carried him across the floor to the desk. “B-but maybe I will!”


Dwight’s heart raced as MacMillan ported him to his desk and then placed him back on the ground in front of him, keeping an arm firmly about Dwight’s waist while he sat himself down in his computer chair, which gave a whoosh of dissent as he leaned forward. Seated, he undid Dwight’s belt, palming him through his underwear before pulling him from them without further preamble. Dwight, mortified at his growing arousal covered his mouth to stifle a whimper.


“Charming,” MacMillan commented in a low voice, stroking Dwight gently. With a second hand he palmed Dwight’s butt, pulling him closer to his lap.


Dwight stumbled, his pulse pounding in his ears and making things slow down, like they were stuck in honey. He felt sensitized, his body too warm for his slacks and MacMillan’s hands too unbearably hot on his bare skin. A big hand encircled his shaft, working it to hardness, sliding down over the head and back up, cupping the ultra-sensitive tip in the centre of his palm.


MacMillan’s half-smirk was wicked but alluring; even the long grey scar that travelled over his lip and chin added a dimension to his face that made Dwight want to reach out and touch. So he did, putting a hand on MacMillan’s chin and guiding his thumb down the line with intrigue. His vision seemed cloudy, like there was Vaseline on the lens, and his knees growing weaker made him shuffle forward and climb into the boss’s lap.


MacMillan huffed out an amused sound as Dwight straddled him in the chair; the arms of the fixture were too awkward to allow him to sit in any other way besides with his legs splayed wide, with one over an arm and another swung up onto the desk. Dwight wriggled into place, bracing himself on his hand on MacMillan’s knee, and the other on the table. As he squirmed into position, his foot scattered a pile of papers onto the floor.


“Sorry,” Dwight murmured, flushing.


“No, you’re not,” MacMillan replied with a chuckle. Maybe Dwight was wrong: maybe MacMillan did know a thing about him.


Dwight looked at the man whom he’d never noticed was so captivating until now—MacMillan was supporting him with hands around him, one pushing up his shirt and the other drawing lines on the small of his back, and looking at him with a hungry, certain stare that made Dwight feel faint. MacMillan’s gaze was hard, like glass, still, but with a warmth that made Dwight swoon. Yeah, the CFO was his type—Dwight wondered if the feeling was mutual, but figured that if buxom ladies and beefcake Brits didn’t fit the bill, then, probably, it was.


MacMillan was wearing far too much in the way of clothing, Dwight thought, and leaning forward, shoved the jacket from his shoulders. He trailed his hands across the breadth of chest revealed, wrapped as it was in shiny pewter silk, and down over MacMillan’s stomach, to his waist, and worked open his slacks. Shakily, Dwight reached down, stopping short when his fingers found a firm thing pressing up towards them.


He figured looking down would destroy his nerves, as he could feel the size of the thing his hand found and knew it was frightening indeed, so he stroked while staring MacMillan in the eyes instead. The man let out a bit of a groan as Dwight’s hand circled the crown of his cock, sliding down over the shaft and to the base that was still beneath the fabric of his fly. Pleased with the soft sounds of interest his ministrations were drawing from the man beneath him, Dwight permitted himself a smile, before gasping when MacMillan touched him again.


Dwight’s hand faltered as MacMillan gave him a soft squeeze, applying just the right amount of pressure to make him see stars. His hips rocked forward unconsciously and Dwight gasped, leaning back on his hand while jerking the CFO off with the other. His rhythm got sloppy and he could see MacMillan smirking at him in a challenging way, and it renewed his resolve to give as good as he got.


It was a mixture of hands, looks, breaths, heartbeat and heat that had Dwight feeling lightheaded as he tipped back his head while MacMillan pushed him further and further up the hill. He pumped frantically to give back the same, varying pressure the way he knew he himself liked and moving faster and faster as the intensity drove up and up. At some point, he realized that he was jacking off the boss in his office mere feet from his friends and that just made him all the more woozy as he started to moan, breathing hard, toes curling in his socks, breath rushing as he fucked MacMillan’s hand, rocking his hips forward into the movements as he rose.



MacMillan’s hardness twitched in his hands, the length of it stiff and hot and teasing his fingers with precum. Dwight stroked the line on the underside and heard a breathless gasp of his own name and that was it, and he came with a cry, throwing a hand over his mouth too late to stifle the ecstatic gasp that came out of him. He spilled into MacMillan’s big palm, which continued to stroke him, then slowly and gently, coaxing the heat of orgasm to spread all through his body.


He looked blearily down to see MacMillan’s cock still hard and hot in his pale fist and almost collapsed at the size of it, and put both hands into the task of finishing him, reaching the second down into the slacks to massage the full testes beneath the burning shaft. Dwight closed his eyes and the image of himself getting pounded between the legs by that huge length flowed immediately into his mind and he had to shake it away to keep from falling completely apart before he finished his task—frantic, quick, steady strokes brought MacMillan to the edge, and he grunted out his orgasm, shooting semen over Dwight’s hands and painting them all the way to the wrists. Dwight slowed his hands before finally letting go and falling back, briefly aware that without MacMillan’s arm holding him up, he’d be a satisfied heap on the floor.


Dwight wanted more kissing, more touching, more of MacMillan naked, but post-orgasm, his precarious position came clear again all at once. His legs were sore from the ridiculous position he sat in, and so he awkwardly stood up, looking around for a way to clean his hands. MacMillan handed him a handkerchief and hand sanitizer, cleaning himself before tucking back into his slacks while Dwight did the same.


“Maybe I have been working too hard,” MacMillan thought aloud, rubbing his arms.


Dwight cleaned his fingers and straightened his clothes, tucking his shirt back in and doing up his belt. Had that really just happened? Did he… win?


MacMillan reached over and powered off his computer without even signing out, leaning back in his chair. He looked around his office, as if taking it in with clarity for the first time in a long while. Then, he turned his gaze on Dwight, who was polishing his glasses on his shirt and patting down his messy black hair.


“What are your real plans for this evening, Dwight?” MacMillan asked, this time without the sarcasm of minutes earlier. His gaze was firm, pewter and devilish.


Dwight replaced his glasses and looked back. “Nothing.”


“Good.” MacMillan replied, and got to his feet, gathering his jacket.


Dwight went out into the hall, half-dazed as he was greeted by four expectant and excited faces. They looked like they were waiting on the results of one of those split-second, too-close-to-call-without-a-high-speed-camera decisions on an Olympic race.


“Well? Did it work?” Meg asked impatiently. “Do we get to go home?”


“Yeah,” Dwight answered, quietly, clasping his wrist and twisting his watch upon it.


“I knew it would,” Min replied confidently, nodding her little head.


“Seriously?” David balked. “What did you do?”


Dwight pursed his lip, shrugged. “Oh, you know... it was like Min said. Like, the naïve thing…?”


“You’ve gotta tell us!” Meg insisted, “we might need to use you again if—”


She straightened up suddenly as the CFO came out of his office, dressed in a long coat and carrying his things. All assembled stepped back, sheepishly regarding their shoes and trying to look occupied with something besides spying as MacMillan gave them each a serious nod in turn, and walked through them without another word.


Dwight scratched his temple, looking sheepishly at his peers, who gazed at him incredulously. He started to leave their awkward company before MacMillan turned back and called over his shoulder.


“I’ll see you at eight,” he said firmly, and Dwight tried to ignore his colleagues watching him turning red.


At least he knew he still had a job—and one with perks, too.