“The Argents will be here in three hours. We need to review our bargaining plan.”
From under the table Stiles hears the click-click of heels that signals Cora’s entrance into the room. Situated as he is with his head on his mistress’ thigh and his back to the room, he can’t catch a glimpse of Cora’s long, thin legs, but he knows her voice well enough. Out of the hundreds of women working in this particular building, Stiles can tell a dozen or so apart only by their hosiery, shoes, and moans. Laura speaks with Cora for a few minutes and the conversation goes over his head. Whatever it is that they’re saying, it's stressing Laura out; the muscles in her thigh tighten and release beneath his head, Laura becoming uncommonly loud for a few moments.
Stiles knows he’s to be quiet and unobtrusive when another woman is in the room, but he can’t help pressing his face to Laura’s skirt. The tension that Cora’s created will be his job to help Laura deal with, and he looks forward to it immensely. Perhaps picking up on his thoughts, Laura pats his head idly, dragging her nails through his short hair in a way that gives birth to goosebumps all over his body.
He tunes back in when he realizes they’re talking about him.
“We’re all tense, though, and everyone else's boys are at home sick with colds.”
“Take better care of them, then,” Laura replies.
“Stop being such a hog. He’s got a great mouth; what’ll he take, ten minutes a person? This is a big day and we need to be ready.”
Under the desk Stiles licks his bottom lip, wondering if Laura is feeling generous with him today, hoping that she is. A finger presses to his lips and he kisses and nibbles at it, rubbing up against her leg.
“God, fine, you’re such a brat,” Laura acquiesces to her sister, pushing back from the desk a little as she does. “Have everyone who needs to get off gather in the conference room in ten. You’re in charge of getting my boy a water bottle, by the way.”
Cora laughs and agrees, her heels click-clicking out of the room and the door to the corner office shutting behind her.
Laura fists Stiles’ hair in her hand with a sigh. “Looks like I’ll have less time with you this morning than I wanted.”
The press of Laura's soft thigh against his cheek is a sweet reminder that he's to make himself useful - to pleasure with no regard for his personal comfort or dignity. Twinges flare in his knees from his position under the oak table but with long practice he ignores them, refocusing on the spread of slick skin before him.
He noses at Laura's clit and hears her hmm above. A frisson of satisfaction at pleasing her buzzes through him, her noises his guide as he licks methodically into her folds to tease. Laura is kind, mostly, with the earthy, musky taste of wolf strong on her skin. She praises him when he does well and always scratches at his hair in a way that makes him feel like a valued pet. Stiles could -- and does -- spend hours down here. Once Stiles was what was generously termed "unfocused", but on his knees before a woman his whole head quiets and he slips into a hypnotic state of bliss that feeds off the pleasure of whomever he services.
Like Stiles expected, she’s wound tight from her conversation with Cora, her first orgasm coming gradually even under Stiles' practiced tongue. Unlike many of the women, Laura has always taken her first release at her arrival, heedless of any sweat she might work up. Today the sound of her fingers clicking away on her laptop keys fills the room and Stiles flushes in embarrassment at failing to totally occupy her.
For a few months he's served at this office's beck and call, putting his lips and tongue to their purpose, yet he's never so blatantly subpar. Laura's obvious distraction drives Stiles to do better. Boldly he trails a hand up her sculpted, bared leg, the small hairs there prickling at his palm as he goes higher and higher up her thighs. He reachs the wet clench of her, testing with a finger under his tongue and hoping he won’t get smacked for his initiative. Instead of disciplining him, though, Laura sighs deeply and slouches in her chair at last. Stiles happily gives her another finger, curling them inside her to feel at the spongy, magic spot behind her clitoris that Laura taught him about and trained him to seek out months ago.
Whatever tension Laura carried melts away under Stiles' diligent fingers and tongue, a melting that Stiles feels happen in ever rising degrees, the coolness of stress giving way to fever, a burn that will eventually turn to a warm and lazy contentment.
"Oh," she says once, sharp. "Oh, good boy."
She yanks at his hair, shuddering and pulsing on his fingers. She’s fluttering on the edge of orgasm, her cunt clenching on his fingers in a rythmic spasm, and Stiles knows exactly how to push her over the edge.
Gently as possible he sucks at her clitoris, running his tongue over it once before pillowing it there, exerting pressure and the tiniest bit of movement. She comes with a high, wolf-like whine, squeezing his fingers together so firmly that it’s almost painful for a moment.
Like a rung towel she lays out on her chair, legs spread wide, arms akimbo. If Stiles looks up he can see her beautiful face, a bead of sweat just rolling down the side of her temple. Her eyes snap open and he flushes at being caught staring.
Laughing, she reaches behind his head and encourages him forward again. “C’mon, sweetie. Clean me up and let’s go see about helping out the rest of the board.”
Though Stiles has worked at Hale & Reyes for more than eight months, he has never had a chance to walk the hall Laura leads him through now. Women poke their heads out of their frost-glass offices, quirking their eyebrows up when they see the rarity that is a boy actually out and upright amongst them. Cheekily he meets a few gazes, unable to squash the playful, slightly disobedient personality he retained even after his extensive training.
Not all of his conditioning is so easily ignored and he naturally falls into place one step to the left and three steps behind Laura, who's making good time to what must be the board room. They reach the large, plush elevator only to find it previously occupied by two fresh-faced workers from the lower floors. They are years older than Stiles was when his lips garnered him the notice of the Enclave, but he cannot help seeing them as younger than himself, new to the world.
With wide eyes they stare at Laura, flicking their gazes to Stiles's lips and then back to their boss. Stiles keeps quiet in a corner, amused at their shock.
"Ms. President?" The woman closest to the door bites her lip after she's spoken as if the word escaped her without permission, but then gathers her courage and forges on. "May we touch your boy?"
Tilting her head to look at the two women in front of her, Laura smiles slowly. "Of course. You have until we reach the sixtieth floor."
Wasting no time the two workers approach either side of Stiles, reaching out their hands to slide down his lean, bare chest until they rest on the edge of the loose yoga pants he wears around the office. The skin tone of one is lighter than his, the other much darker, and the play of the colors enchants Stiles for a few precious seconds. Before he can clear his head, the two women have banded together, using the thirty seconds that they have command over his body to drive him to the brink of insanity. One flicks his nipple and laughs when he gasps while the other cups his face in her hand, thumbing at his lips, her own mouth open in breathless compassion.
He's licking her finger, eyelids low and welcoming, when the elevator dings their arrival. Stiles suckles harder, trying to control his moans from where he's being petted on his front, the other woman running her fingers through the trail of hair leading down from his belly button. It's so little but it feels like so much; he's been trained to anticipate the slightest need of his owner, and part of that is being receptive to input and shades of feeling. Like a body scrubbed a little too harshly, its new, sensitive skin on display, Stiles experiences every touch twice as deeply as any other human.
A little yank on his ear tears him away from the sensory overload, Laura leading him out of the elevator by his cartilage. It's less a chiding act and more a playful one, but Stiles quickly follows her regardless. He vaguely registers her imbuing parting wisdom on the young women in the elevator, exhorting them to work hard so that they, too, might one day own a boy of their own. Their hungry gazes rest on Stiles until the elevator doors close, leaving him half-hard and desperate to get back on his knees, where he belongs.
Laura smirks at him, letting him return to his natural spot behind her as they continue down the hallway and finally enter a pair of doors at the very end. Polished glass and some sort of dark wood are really the only things Stiles sees before he dips his head down and awaits instructions. A warm palm on his nape encourages him to his knees and he folds sinuously down, surprised to find that a thin pillow awaits him under the huge table. Legs stretch out around Stiles, some long and thin, others plump and soft; high heels and loafers, tights or no tights, skirts or pantssuits. In a few seconds Stiles takes it all in, deciding on his approach to the first three people in the limited time he has before Laura is telling him to get to work.
"Laura has generously offered her boy for our use before the meeting," Cora is saying from the head of the table. "Remember that we've got ten people here, so don't monopolize him. Even if he does have the softest lips you've ever felt on your clit." Laughter rings out and Stiles smiles to himself under the table, already parting the first woman's legs. It seems Laura's been bragging about him – he wants to make her proud.
The meeting hasn't actually begun yet, so all the women continue talking, laid-back and irreverent with each other. Stiles slowly takes down the underwear of the woman before him, a plain white pair that hides a cunt covered in light blonde hair. Stiles isn't new enough to this to think that his tongue should be doing all the work; he knows the beginning will set the tone for what follows. As lightly as possible he runs his nose over the folds of her body, feeling her muscles quiver as he does.
A hand tipped in blood-red fingernails reaches down for him. At the sight nerves shoot through Stiles – this must be Erica Reyes, Laura's partner. He remembers her from a few months back, when Laura hosted dinner at her house and offered Erica a side of Stiles with her dessert. Stiles still remembers how Erica had praised his tongue and given him a few licks of her ice cream. She and Laura are two sides of the same coin, and from the phone calls that Stiles can hear from his normal spot under Laura's desk, Laura respects Erica to a degree she does no one else.
Erica is hard to please and grabby, but Stiles likes both of those things. He has to do well, and he will – if he can just remember all of his training, give himself over to her.
Fingernails scratch over the back of his head and he moans very lowly, buzzing the outside of Erica's cunt. Knowing who it is changes everything. Normally Stiles would tease, draw the moment of contact out, but Erica knows what she wants and she isn't happy when she doesn't get it. Stiles parts her lips and rubs up against her pink spread, wetting his lips in her before he gets his long fingers involved.
A few women consider it cheating when a boy uses anything but his mouth to get a person off, but Stiles guesses that Erica doesn't have any such old-fashioned ideas, and he's rewarded for his brave assumption when she clenches on his two sudden fingers and moans. The pressure doesn't let up and Stiles realizes that she must have been on edge if she's this wound up. Quickly he gets her open, using his other hand to reveal the bud of her clitoris.
A sharp, sudden yank on his hair forces a surprised yelp from Stiles and in the next second his face is being ridden, Erica spreading herself over him, rubbing on his lips. Reorienting himself and ignoring the pricks of discomfort radiating from his scalp, Stiles offers his tongue, keeping it flat and still so that Erica can use it to come on. Once she realizes that he's being a good boy for her and holding, a second hand comes down to join the first and she fists his hair, moving his head in time with her slightly undulating hips.
Even though he's barely working, a sense of completeness still washes over him when Erica seizes on his fingers and lets out the smallest of groans, coming all over his face. It's part of his job to clean up after his mess, so Stiles licks and sucks until Erica's cunt is shiny with his spit. Next to his knees rest a damp towel, and he lightly pats at her before tucking her back away into her underwear. His ministrations earn him a casual pet before Erica bats at his head, urging him to the next woman.
It's more than an hour later that Stiles finishes the last person, his lips almost hurting with how they've been abused, crushed against skin and rolled between interested fingers. When at last he wrings an orgasm out of the final woman, he fairly collapses to his little pillow beneath the behemoth of a desk, wishing desperately for sleep.
A foot suddenly finds his ribs, a dark black stiletto lightly dimpling his skin – Erica wants his attention. Exhausted but too well trained to do anything else, Stiles folds himself once again between her legs. Instead of parting them, though, she grabs at his head and roughly pulls him from out under the table. All the voices he's been tuning out break through to his head at that second, the chatter he'd thought irrelevant revealing itself to be a conversation revolving around him.
"Are you listening at all?" Erica asks, tutting down at him. Stiles blinks, the bright light from above shocking him for a moment. "Get up here."
Standing, Stiles follows Erica's hands, letting her bend him over the desk so that her hips are bracketing him in. His cock – engorged as it almost always is when he's serving – rests on the wood through his soft pants. It's only with great practice that he swallows his moan.
Hands find his front, tugging his yoga pants down around the slim outline of his ass and then the rigid line of his dick. Newly naked, Stiles sprawls out over the desk, his bare skin catching on what he can now see is a dark oak. The two women at the other side of the conference table grab his arms, leaving his legs and arms spread.
"Do you mind?" comes the off-hand question, Erica finally thinking to ask permission for her actions.
"Not at all." Laura says from across the room, and Stiles wonders what she's doing right before her steps come around the other side of the desk and she offers a little water bottle to Stiles, letting him suckle from it, then letting him suckle her finger when he's sucked that dry. She's always been so kind to him. No sooner has he thought that then she's telling him, "It's okay to make noise today. Cry if you need to."
It's the only warning he gets before Erica's slick hand is between the halves of his ass. Her finger breaches him and he cries out, using Laura's permission immediately. It's not terribly rare that he serves as a receptacle for fingers or toys, but with the upcoming merger Laura has been busier than usual, too caught up in work to give Stiles much time. He's tight and on edge because of it, one finger becoming two seamlessly until Stiles is a moaning wreck.
Will he even be allowed to come today? As soon as the thought has surfaced he tries to batter it back down – if he starts thinking about his own needs, he'll never get through this without coming.
A few people start complaining that they can't see the action, and before Stiles knows it he's being urged up onto the desk, his sweaty palms and knees sliding all over the place. Erica keeps her fingers buried inside him, and Stiles feels like a puppet, all his twitchy movements guided by another.
"Who wants to see him come?" Erica calls out, smiling devilishly as she looks around the table. Oh thank god, thank god he'll be allowed to come. Stiles feels like he could sob – and he is, tears running up his face from where it's angled down into the desk, each tear plopping onto the veneer. His face is pulled up roughly, fingers twisted in his hair. Stiles can't even see who's dragging him around for the tears in his eyes, everyone and everything reduced to a blur of light and motion.
A steady whine fills the room, "please please please," a voice lower than most of those around him. Belatedly Stiles realizes it's his lips that are moving, his begging that's in the air. It stops when a finger forces its way into his mouth, plugging up his cries.
"Make him come just on your fingers!" A few voices raise in agreement, and Stiles isn't far enough gone to not moan harder at that. Does he want it, or does he want deliverance from it? Even Stiles doesn't know.
Hands tweak his nipples, scratch at his back, roll his balls, stroke his nape. With each touch he gets closer to orgasm, but it's nothing guided, only an afterthought. He humps at the air and receives three smacks on the ass for his efforts, Erica's wolf-strong arm forcing a yelp out of him.
"Oh, Stiles," says someone, and then Laura is wiping his face of tears with her soft thumbs, cupping his chin in her firm grip. "Look at what we've done to you."
Unable to form any verbal response, Stiles nuzzles into her hold, tries to nip her fingers.
"Hush," she soothes. The hand he can't see is – is reaching down below him, to where his dick hangs heavy and untouched between his knees – oh, is she? Could she be – ? She's never touched him before, not like this, her fingers wrapped steady around his cock, using his precome to slick the way as she jacks him, quick and fast. "There you are, there you are. Come for me," is all she has to say before Stiles obediently shoots all over her hand, body twitching with each wave.
When she puts her come-drenched fingers to his face, he doesn't have to be told what to do. There are still hands sliding over his body, feeling his muscles and occasionally scratching the very first layer of skin from his body, but Stiles ignores it all in favor of Laura.
"Good boy." She watches him lick the last of his thick come from her palm. "Off the table now, there we go. You want to sit at my feet?"
Dumb with the echos of pleasure, Stiles nods. Where else would he possibly want to be?