Ben's not nervous.
He's absolutely not.
It's freezing in the spacious-yet-somehow-also-cramped office, which is why his knees are knocking together. That and he's only wearing a cut off top, one that shows off all the work he's been putting in in the gym, and a pair of his tightest leggings. Something to show off his body, that other manager said. Plus two songs. Which he has in a shoulder bag, both in a CD and on a flashdrive.
He's cold, is what he means. He's cold and that's why he's shivering.
He's not at all nervous about becoming a stripper. Well. Hopefully becoming a stripper. He swallows, dry, as he fiddles with the cut edge of the second-hand Smith's shirt he sliced up to make his little outfit. It’s the sort of last-ditch effort that is also somehow not last-ditch or last minute at all. He came in three weeks in a row, buying the cheapest drinks and trying to get a scope on whether or not he really wanted to—or needed to—do this.
Nothing he applied to in the meantime called him back, because apparently a baby-faced nineteen year old wasn’t exactly what they were looking for.
He lasted two whole semesters just fine and dandy, but the summer? No dorm, no meal plan, no scholarship funds saved.
Rent is coming up. And his phone bill is now late and, well, he's getting tired of peanut butter on bread and bland rice. Plus he's almost out of rice.
He asked about an audition the end of the third week and the guy on duty, Alex, said it was all on Washington and that he decided who actually went to Washington.
A sour taste turns in the back of Ben's throat. He convinced Alex to give him a shot.
And, even after his...conversation...with Alex, he came back for an audition with Washington. He came back to stand in the dark, chilly office with a high wooden desk and a thick sort of clunky, outdated desktop. Behind him is a dusty stereo, to his left, a pole. Just like the kinds on the stage.
The room is darker than the strip club outside the shut door. Windowless and eerie, it sets exactly the kind of mood that makes Ben jump half a foot as soon as the door creaks open behind him.
“Right. An audition.” Ben turns at the low tires-over-gravel voice that rumbles at him. “Alex said you'd be in today.” The source fills the door frame, backlit by the strobing blues and reds and whites of the mid-afternoon scene.
Ben's eyes slide to the floor. To the scuffs and dents in it. “He said to wait in here? You're Mr. Washington?”
A grunt. “I am. And that's fine. You must be Benjamin,” The sound of thrilling base-line quiets as the door slides shut behind the manager, and its replaced instead by footfalls. Ben nods and looks up when it sounds like Washington has circled around. He's tall, broad, with a face that, well, a strong jaw and a proud nose. Sharp eyes cool and assessing and fixated on Ben's exposed stomach. Or his crotch.
Either way, Ben tugs at his shirt, shifting his sneaker clad feet.
“Alexander said you were talented,” Washington says. And his eyes slide, dark and sharp and...heavy with something else, all the way up to Ben's lips.
Ben bites one, tries not to let that shame eat into his stomach like bitter acid. He didn’t dance for Alex. “Thank you, sir.”
“Right. So,” he clears his throat. “Did you bring music?”
Ben stoops down to scoop up the bag, already wrist-deep in it. “I did, the, Alex said two but I brought a few extra. In case. I've got a CD or a flash drive.” He withdraws both from his pack and Washington gladly takes the drive, letting Ben store away the CD.
He waits, shifting minutely towards the pole. Washington gestures. “First song on that, please. If you've a routine prepared, I mean.”
“I do!” He confirms, pushed into responding far too quickly by the subtle rumble of his empty stomach. He clears his throat. “I mean...yes, sir. I have a pole routine and...other things I can do. I'm...better at lap dances. As well as—I mean…” His stomach churns, his throat catches on what he means to swallow.
He remembers Alex and tries to recall the shivering he felt, when he twisted his eyes closed and tried to forget it was for a job.
Alex was fine, leering but half-pleasant given the circumstances. And Washington is...well. He's handsome, Ben would say. If it was any other situation, he thinks.
Ben looks up.
Maybe this situation too.
“I can do whatever you want.”
The chair creaks with interest. “The first thing you can do for me is dance.”
The first bars of Habits start, chiming low and Ben starts with a deep, fluid, body roll, bending back and gripping the pole above his head. He can't lift himself like he wants, but he stretches out, twists, rolls and gyrates.
He knows he looks like an idiot, he doesn't spin or lift—he doesn't have the arm strength or the thigh strength yet and, well, he isn't exactly sure he wants it. He's lean, he's slender and to lift himself...well, he needs to be bulkier.
Like Magic Mike fit.
He spins around it without lifting, flexes and back-bends and moves to the beat—eyes on the edge of the desk as long as he can. He can't watch, can't take those eyes. Calculating, judging him.
He twists. Curls. He dances himself to a raw sweat, sliding to his spread knees and bending back to push his shirt up and over his head. It pools, unceremoniously, behind him as he skates his hands up the length of his chest.
God, the song feels longer than it did before. Did he rush? Is he off beat? Is he going too fast? Is he—oh no, it's over.
It stops and Ben's out of breath, leg stretched and braced above his head, ankle hooked over the pole.
He pants, hot, as he slowly gets back upright and on two feet, clearing his throat again he clasps his hands in front of himself and waits.
Washington looks...unimpressed. Apparently he'd been taking notes, as evidenced by the filled paper before him and the pen tap-tapping on the desktop. He sighs and sets it down. “Well,” he starts. “As I'm sure you're aware, stage time is a coveted thing. We currently schedule in favor of seniority, of course. Floor spots are more open Thursday through Saturday, but even if there were space, if you're hired you'd still be on the floor.”
His stomach churns bitterly and he tries not to go red with indignation. Luckily, he thinks he's flushed enough through exertion that it wouldn't matter.
Stupid to think he could do this, stupid to think he didn't need to go home for the summer, stupid to think it was smart to come out when he'd still need a place to crash.
He's so tired and sore and fucking exhausted and he only has three rolls of toilet paper left and he knows his roommates won't buy more because they're fucking assholes.
“Can I show you another? Do something? Anything? I can do a lap dance, a-a another pole dance?” It's pleading, it's practically begging on his knees, fuck, he'd get on his knees. He sucked Alex's dick just to get here, he'll suck Washington's. He doesn't care anymore, he just needs this.
Washington stands up, hand at his waist and Ben deflates. Of course. “I’ll just,” Ben trails off, scooping down to pick up his shirt before the scrape of chair legs on hardwood echoes, sharp and grating, through the room.
By the time he looks up, Washington is already sat back down, thighs spread in his office chair. “Impress me, then.” He says, leaning over to hit play. “And actually do it this time.”
Ben drops his shirt again, just in the same moment he regrets picking Spice Girls for his choice audition song. He starts topless, not something he'd exactly chose to do but...well, what other choice does he have? He knows what he has to do.
He said he'd do anything and now, well, he's doing anything. He circles Washington’s seat to the opening bars, slides his arms down his shoulders, down his chest.
Alex said the club was no-contact, but clearly the management has no such qualms.
He teases, he circles, all before actually climbing into his lap. Ben looks at him this time, actually tries to read him out of nothing but raw desperation. He's good at lap dances, he knows he's good at these. Ben works him as hard as he can, he pulls every trick he knows, sliding yo his knees down on the ground, settled between Washingtons thighs, thumbs hooked under the band of his leggings.
He arches his back down to stick his ass out as he pulls them down. Slipping out of them, leaving him in just his tight, plain black shorts, is effortless. It's effortless and fluid to crawl back to him, to crawl into his lap.
Washington's eyes darken ams Ben can feel that look from his first once over but harder, more familiar.
It consumes him as he writhes to the beat, gasping and purring in Washington's ear. He flips over to grind back into him, ass in his lap and hands bracing himself on the back of the chair over both of their shoulders.
It's one second, then two, then solid, heavy, hands whip to his waist and yank him down firmly. Then hips, under him, matching his beat with perfect time.
He can feel Washington being if not impressed then absolutely fucking interested. He's hard, twitching against Ben's thigh as he moves higher and slides down to straddle one of Washingtons.
The song isn't even fucking over.
“Go on,” Washington rasps, pushing his hips up. “I said impress me.”
And Ben sinks down to his knees, this time with less fluidity and more purpose. His fingers inch up the inseam of Washingtons pants to the beat of early 2000s pop, skating the bulge all the way to his zipper.
He pulls him out and tries not to let the rock in his gut turn to fire. He felt big under him but this is bigger than he thought. Bigger than Alex that's for damn certain. Washington's cock is a nice, heavy weight in his hand. Hard and smooth, Ben licks his lips and looks up at him, watching those eyes go raw with want and need.
Ben closes his eyes to kiss the shaft.
Above him, Washington hisses a low, heavy breath. Ben takes it as encouragement, and drags his tongue from root to tip, getting him a little bit wetter and a little slicker. He looks like the kind of guy to want it deep in Ben's throat. Ben tries hard not to think about how much he's exactly the kind to know the kind. He tries not to be sloppy about it, slobber all over the front of his pants. He keeps it clean, neat, until he can start in on the head, little suckles and licks and keep Washington on his toes. The bitter taste of precome collects on his tongue as he presses it against the slit, rolling over again and again before Washington's fingers reach for his hair.
He pushes, urging Ben down and down. And Ben follows, letting him slide over his tongue and sealing his lips around him. He takes careful breaths in through his nose, doesn’t gag when Washington nudges the back of his throat.
Above him, Washington grunts, and Ben winces in time with the sharp pull on his hair. He follows Washington’s guidance, sliding up and down a few more times, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard on the upstrokes. He peers up after a few more of those, very glad he triple-checked that his mascara was waterproof before he decided on just a little. To make his eyes look bigger.
God, he can feel unshed tears clumping in his lashes, feel how much his eyes are burning just from the tapping of the head of Washington’s cock against his throat, like it’s knocking for entrance. He looks up at him, with slightly-blurry eyes, and for once Washington is unbelievably easy to read. He might not be impressed yet but he is absolutely into it.
Time for his next trick. Ben shifts, gathering himself up on his knees a little higher. He smooths his palms up and down Washington’s thighs, until he can safely find a place to brace himself as he gets into a better position to open his throat and push further down. He can’t watch as well but he can hear the shuddering half-caught breath of a man who definitely did not expect that.
Ben comes within a hair's breadth of gagging more than a few times, but he doesn’t. He keeps it under control, well...keeps that under control. It’s messier, sloppier, spit soaking and drooling off his lips, off Washington’s cock as he pulls up and pushes back down and pulls up and pushes back down.
The song is over, the song has been over. It’s just them now, just the sick, revolting, sounds of spit-slick lips and flesh and the heaving and low grunting above him. His fingers slide over, teasing as Ben buries his nose in the half-bunched fabric of Washington’s shirt. He dips them into Washington’s pants, finding those heavy balls nice and tight against him.
Fully aware that he can’t exactly afford (both literally and metaphorically) to half-ass this one, Ben makes sure to give them a little attention too. And maybe, Ben figures, ending this a little sooner too.
Though, of course lady luck wouldn’t be on his side for this either. No, a few more sucks, a few more strokes, and Washington’s hands are back, pushing him up and off and—for just a moment, Ben think’s that’s it. He’ll grab himself, finish on Ben’s face and give him a job. That’s it, he can go home, shower, shamefully jack off, and hit the gym.
But no, he wipes the spit from his lips, blinking those waterlogged eyes up at Washington. “Is that good?”
Washington looks down at him, eyes dark and lips twitching with a hint of a half-smile or half-smirk. “More than good. That was incredibly good.” The relief in Ben’s blood blossoms, overwhelms him for just a moment. “If I were Alexander.”
And it drops.
His stomach sinks and he can’t—he can’t wrap his head around it. He can’t fathom what Washington could possibly fucking mean. Good if he’s Alexander.
Does he—oh. Ben wipes his chin with the back of his hand. “Do you want—” His mouth is dry. Too dry. He tries to swallow, his heart pacing circles in his throat, but it doesn’t budge at all. “I’ll do that too.”
He’ll do it? He lets his eyes shut as Washington stands, the sticky-wet head of his cock bumping and sliding against Ben’s cheek as he does. He sucked two dicks to get this far, and Washington is, well. Ben wouldn’t have considered he had a type before. At least not out loud. He watched porn like this, always got off watching the big, thick-cocked guy pounding some tight little twink. He always sought after those kind of guys in bars. Had his fair share of quick flings with them, dated a guy almost twice his age when he was 18.
Washington looks...well. Ben can pretend like this is a bar, he can pretend like this is a guy’s living room, right?
At least Washington is his type, he figures.
He really doesn’t think he could do this if he wasn’t. He tries to put himself in hypothetical shoes as the bottle of lube hits his stomach and clatters to the ground between his knees. Above him, the crinkling of a condom wrapper. No, he couldn’t do it if it was any of the other guys, short and red-faced and hulking in all the wrong ways. Thin and weedy or somebody who was just...unkempt.
Ben couldn’t do that.
He picks up the bottle with half-numb fingers, watching Washington watch him, his straining, hard, wet cock between them.
This? He pulls himself up to his feet, and Washington’s brow raises slowly. Or maybe it just feels slow because everything feels slow. He swallows again and hooks his fingers into the band of his boxer-briefs. This he can do.
He settles into Washington’s lap, nude, with the bottle still gripped in his white-knuckled grip.
“Smart choice,” Washington purrs, thick fingers settling on Ben’s hip. Ben doesn’t respond because he can’t. He can’t choke up any words. He just pops the cap and slicks up three of his fingers and reaches behind himself.
When he does this at home, or half-buzzed in someone else’s place, he always takes it slow. Teases out long sighing moans from himself, makes himself wait for it, puts on a show. He’d circle his hole, be playful, make his own toes curl with anticipation.
He doesn’t do that now. Doesn’t do that to Washington. He swallows the grunt as he works two of his slender fingers into himself right away, not letting himself adjust to the burn before he twists them. The hiss comes up before he can stop himself, Washington humming softly as those fingers climb up past his waist. He thumbs over Ben’s ribs, making his skin twitch with the want to shiver. “Slow down,” he rumbles. “You won’t be able to dance if you fuck yourself up.”
Dance? Right. Dance. That’s what he’s doing this for. To be hired to get mostly naked and grind on strangers. He lets his forehead fall forward onto Washington’s shoulder, and he slips one finger out and keeps his middle working himself open. Just...don’t think about it, he tells himself. Don’t think about it.
Washington’s fingers are restless, wandering up and down his sides, to his stomach, his back, his thighs as Ben works himself a little looser with just a single finger before wriggling the second back in. It hurts much less now, the burn a little softer, a little more—well—a little more what Ben likes.
He keeps talking, too, low in Ben’s ear. “That’s right,” he breaths, “get yourself nice and open for me. I bet you take cock so well, you look like the type. Nervous and trembling when you were in my office, but absolutely filthy as soon as the music hit. You’re just a beautiful little slut, only made to work one kind of pole.” He punctuates that by grinding up, half-dried cock sliding over Ben’s stomach. It flips and he hates, hates, how much that shit is turning him on right now.
Washington’s damned fingers move again, sliding under him to find where he’s twitching towards a half-interested hardness, fingers curling and twisting and spreading inside himself. It’s not his fault he knows what he likes. He grips Ben’s cock, dark chuckle rattling around in Ben’s mind as he gasps, hot and wet against it.
“You like this,” Washington teases, giving him a few rough, dry, strokes. “Oh you filthy little whore. You slut, you loved having my cock shoved down your throat, choking yourself on it like it’s the only thing you’ve eaten in weeks. If I let you, if I blew my load down your throat, made you gag on it, I bet you would’ve come on that alone.”
Ben, because he can’t fucking help himself, between the fingers and the hand and the voice, whimpers. And of course, Washington chuckles a-fucking-again. He leaves Ben’s cock alone, much to his chagrin, and instead walks his fingers down between his thighs, teasing the stretched rim of his cock as Ben works his third and final finger into himself.
For a second, Ben things he’s doing to push them in, to wrench him apart nice and deep—but he doesn’t. He gathers the lube spread around Ben’s hole onto his fingers and uses it to slick up Ben’s own cock and go back to stroking him.
“I’m going to make you come on my cock,” he says, like it’s a taunt. “Show you just how slutty you are. Just how much you love being used like a little come-rag. You disgusting fucking slut.” Ben whimpers, cock twitching. He hates how much he loves and fuck, fuck, fuck he fucking loves it.
He grinds down on his fingers once, then twice then, because he won’t let himself come before he gets to the most important part of this whole fucking ordeal (whether or not he keeps forgetting that is...well, it is what it is), he slides them out and shifts himself up on Washington’s lap, lifting his head from where it’s migrated to the crook of his neck.
Wordlessly, Washington hands him the condom, package already torn open for him. Which is good, because he struggles with it anway in his lube-slick and shaking fingers.
This is it. This is absolutely it. He rolls it down over Washington’s cock and takes a deep breath before fishing out the lube body from where it managed to wiggle down between his thigh and the chair.
Washington grunts as Ben works him over a little, both to get him plenty slick and to warm the lube on him up a bit. This is it. This is absolutely it.
He takes a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He can back out, he knows he can back out. Washington’s gone back to holding him by the waist, a loose sort of grip that Ben can wriggle around in. Which he does, trying to find the most comfortable position where he isn’t kneeing Washington’s stomach or absolutely going to fall off the chair. Plus one where he could move is pretty nice too.
It takes some maneuvering, but he gets there, elbows braced on the back of the chair, bringing him almost uncomfortably close to Washington but whatever. Washington holds himself upright, drags the head of his cock over Ben’s stretched, ready, hole.
Then fucking teases him. He teases him! Rubbing against him, pressing and making Ben tense in anticipation before giving him that ridiculous, awful low huff of something that might be laughter and pulling away. Ben’s thighs are so tense, every inch of him is too tense.
But it only lasts so long before Washington guides him lower, and lower, and the pressure doesn’t leave this time. He doesn’t slide away but instead holds his cock firmer, catching Ben’s hole and nudging into him at a pace that’s almost painfully slow.
Ben’s eyes screw shut because if his lips and throat burned at how big he was, it was nothing compared to the way his split his fucking ass open. He breathes into it, sinking down inch by inch by inch, feeling him pushing his way into him and into him and into him and his cock is straining against his fucking stomach, flushed and red and fucking he needs to be touched—he doesn’t want to be touched but he needs to be touched.
He needs to be touched—but this is only business. It’s only business. It’s only business. He doesn’t fucking want this, he doesn’t need to be touched. He just needs the job. All he needs is for Washington to blow his load and hire him. But he’s settled in his lap, sweat breaking out at his hairline and lips cracked and breath harsh.
He rocks, starting slowly, at first. Back and forth, then in little circle.
Ben buries his face down in the crook of his elbow as he gets himself into a good position to start actually moving, feeling the shifting and slide inside him, the burn of his body accommodating, the rub of Washington against his prostate with every. Single. Fucking. Movement. He twitches? He bumps against it. He shifts, he grinds into it.
And judging by how much he’s ‘shifting’ he fucking knows it. Ben gasps with each one, he groans, involuntarily, whenever Washington’s hips hitch up, pushing deeper and deeper and fuck his cock is throbbing trapped between them.
Is he supposed to get off? Is it rude not to?
Either way, he hopes Washington keeps his promise. Especially since he hasn’t stopped promising.
“I’m going to make you lose your mind,” he promises, low and hot as he pinches and rolls Ben’s nipples. “Look how well you take this fat cock, it fits so perfect in your tight little hole. Come on, show me what you’re made of. Show me you can take it.”
And “That’s right, look how much you love cock. I bet you can’t get enough of it. Choking yourself on every single one you find. You wanted this from the get-go, I can tell.”
Ben works up a steady pace, moves from the short bursts to sitting up, bracing himself with his hands and working his thighs as he throws his head back and backs backwards to really make sure Washington keeps hitting his sweet spot.
“You nasty little slut. Just a worthless come-rag. Fuck dancing, you could sell yourself just like this. Make six grand a night spreading those pretty legs and showing off your used, come-soaked little hole.”
He’s lost in it, eyes screwed back as he keeps a steady pace, Washington’s fingers moving down to his hips to grip him just loose-enough not to bruise. His thighs burn, his stomach burns, his everything burns.
“Come on, you can take it.” Grunts, pants, groans. “Look at that, look how pretty you look taking dick. You were made for this, made to be useless wet, hot little hole.”
The pace picks up and picks up and picks up and Ben can feel Washington getting ready to lose it, he pulls Ben back down hard with every up-stroke, he starts meeting him in the middle, pushing his hips up to fuck him harder and faster and harder and faster until Ben’s practically fucking choking on it.
Washington holds him down, flush against him with one thick arm wrapped around his waist and another shoved down to grope for Ben’s cock. He still thrusts against him, rough and hard and making Ben’s eyes roll back in his fucking head.
He squeezes Ben’s cock as he comes, grunting and twitching and emptying into the condom, but he doesn’t push him off directly afterwards. No, he moves, shifting them, keeping Ben impaled on his cock as he reaches down and comes up with some black fabric, laying it over his own stomach before grinding his hips up a little more.
It’s half a dozen strokes before Ben blows, breath catching and whole body clenching in waves and waves. It’s a full-body sort of experience, the kind that leaves him boneless slumped over onto Washington’s chest as he half-assed wipes him clean with the rag and slides his half-soft cock out.
Ben shudders, feeling open and sore and sticky and cold.
He gets to take two deep breath before he makes himself get up and—are you fucking kidding him? The black rag Washington used as a jizz rag was his fucking underwear?
Goddammit. He turns to find his leggings when Washington makes a low noise behind him again. Ben glances over to see him doing himself up, tossing the rag-which-is-his-underwear in Ben’s direction. “It’s Thursday. Come in tomorrow at six and Alex’ll show you the ropes. You’ll be on the floor Friday and Saturday and then he’ll schedule you for whenever you need to be there next. Tip out is 15%, I’ll waive your house fees this week on account of, well let's call it an impressive performance.”
Ben grunts, then tries not to sigh as he pushes his hair back. “Thank you, sir. I really appreciate this.” He finds his leggings and his shirt, and, well, apparently he’ll be going commando.
“We do have a dress code, by the way. You will need a new outfit,” Washington says, not getting up or moving his chair back to his desk. Ben doesn’t swear but he fucking wants to, he can’t afford a new outfit. He really can’t spring for some fancy lingerie or anything like that.
He’s sore, he’s tired and he wants to fucking go home.
The desk drawers rattle open again and just as Ben gets his leggings on, he hears the sound of something soft and heavy hitting the top of the desk. He turns, and Washington sits back, self-satisfied look on his face. “You said you have more than two songs?”
Ben’s eyes slide to the thing Washington took out. A stack of cash, neatly bound. “Let’s give you a little practice taking a tip.”