Fisticuffs

Rik Jammer steps into his office on a Saturday and spots Billy Cochran behind a pile of papers. Billy wears a tight dress shirt and tie. Rik reaches for the knot and Billy says he’s straight, but the promise of a boost up the ladder makes him lean in. Their mouths meet hard. Tongues push, teeth click. Rik drops to his knees, frees Billy’s cock and sucks it deep until spit drips down the shaft. Billy lies back on the desk, legs spread. Rik slicks his fist, works two fingers in, then four, then the whole hand slides past the knuckle. He twists, left-right, wrist-deep, while Billy grunts and rocks. Rik climbs onto the desk next, boots in the air. Billy greases his own hand and returns the favor, punching slow then fast until Rik’s hole swallows past the wrist. They trade places again and again, fists disappearing and reappearing in steady rhythm. Sweat shines on their skin, ties hang loose, shirts stick to chests. The sun shifts across the office blinds. Finally Billy strokes once, twice, and shoots thick ropes across his own stomach while Rik’s hand stays buried inside him.