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Tom pulls Greg into his office by his tacky tie, slamming the door behind them loud enough to make the lanky assistant jump.
“Why’d you go around telling everyone about the thing at the party, you piece of shit?” Even with the door closed, Tom speaks in a harsh whisper. Greg looks bewildered, sputtering as he faces his exasperated colleague.
After his bachelor’s party, which was pretty much a train wreck in Tom’s book (aside from the thing in question), Tom weathered repeated jokes and jabs from the Roys. That wasn’t too out of the ordinary, because the vultures soon to be his brothers-in-law would find just about anything to snicker at Tom about. But when he walked through the office and heard barely disguised murmurs and laughs as he passed, it became much more of a problem. And if the Roy’s weren’t lying, it was a problem that Greg was completely and unequivocally responsible for.
“The, uh, the thing? Oh, that you swallowed your load?” Greg talks at full volume, characteristically refusing to pick up on the cues that Tom so clearly lays down.
“Greg, you sick fuck! What, do you get off on saying it? Are you so perversely obsessed with my incredible sex life that you can’t help but relay it to everyone who crosses your path?” Tom steps forward, planting himself firmly inside Greg’s personal space. Greg keeps his eyes on the floor as though it would give out under him at any moment.
“I- I mean like, I only told one person? And it uh, it kind of just slipped out? And-”
“Shut up, Greg.” Tom interrupts him. Greg winces, but doesn’t stop blathering.
“-I was like, still kind of high? On coke? Remember, the cocaine?” His eyes are raised to meet Tom’s now, an innocent, fawn-like expression projected onto his face.
“Greg, I don’t give a shit. You should have your tiny, blathering mouth stuffed to stop you from gossiping like a schoolgirl.”
Greg takes a quick glance downward. It’s almost imperceptibly fast, but Tom notices. Tom definitely notices that Greg looked at his dick.
“Greg?” He lowers his voice to a low growl. “Do you want something, you pervert?”
Even though it’s Tom himself who implies it, the image that the implication conjures sends a wave of heat to his groin. His naive, docile assistant on his knees, cut down from his ridiculous height. His small mouth forced wide open. Who wouldn’t get hard from that?
A loud gulp pulls Tom out of fantasy land, back to the reality of Greg trembling, staring down at Tom, pupils wide, mouth agape. He mutters something, completely inaudible.
“Hm? What was that? Don’t make me ask again, Greg.” Being horny always emboldens Tom, but that combined with the pre-existing power imbalance? It’s something he’s never felt with Shiv, not even with the woman at the bachelor’s party. Tom is prepared to pull the ever-useful “I’m joking!” card in case he misread the situation entirely, but he desperately, desperately hopes he won’t have to.
“Uh, y-yes.” Greg’s voice is soft, nervous as usual, but deeper and breathier than ever. Tom mentally throws the “I’m joking!” card into the incinerator. He’s all in.
“Yes what, Greg? Tell me what you want.” Tom commands, grabbing Greg’s tie again and tugging. Greg puts up no resistance, allowing his head to be pulled down towards Tom.
“I w-want to suck your dick.” Unlike the vast majority of Greg’s utterances, there’s no question about it.
“Attaboy!” Tom feels giddy, blood rushing to his crotch. A moment of panic sinks into his gut when he realizes that anyone could have seen the exchange through the glass windowed wall of his office, but despite the utterly pornographic nature of their conversation, there weren't actually any visual cues to indicate to the outside world what they were talking about. That wouldn’t be the case very soon, however.
“Go close the blinds, Greg.” Tom orders, releasing his grasp on Greg’s neckwear. Greg stands there, stunned. “Chop chop, cock sock!” Tom claps his hands and Greg sprints the few feet to the wall behind Tom. Grinning at how fitting the nickname “cock sock” would soon become, Tom struts over to his desk. He sits in his office chair and pushes it back from the desk with his feet, the wheels carrying him to a spot where there’s plenty of space in front of him. Tom watches Greg fumble with the blinds, and unbuckles his pants.
Once he finishes drawing the blinds, Greg dashes over to Tom, quickly getting to his knees. Tom thinks he's naive, sure, but he definitely isn’t clueless. Sunlight streams in from the outward facing windows, but Tom doesn’t mind that they’re unobscured. There’s no way anyone could see them clearly from any of the other office buildings.
“Tom?” Greg calls Tom’s attention away from their surroundings. He’s looking up at Tom with his wide, sparkling eyes. Tom doesn’t know how he went so long without fucking this guys face. “Do you, uh, think maybe you could keep talking to me the, um, way you always do? While we do this? Like, uh,” Greg bites his lip, eyes fixed on Tom’s despite the fact that Tom has just wrestled his cock out of its cloth confines. “Like, when you’re mean to me?”
A wolfish grin creeps onto Tom’s face. “Oh, you like that, you little degenerate? I should’ve guessed. Pervert like you, getting off from workplace banter like some desperate whore. Is that what you are, Greg?” In response, Greg lets out the filthiest, most arousing moan Tom has ever heard. Tom realizes that he needs to get his dick into Greg’s mouth as soon as possible, because he’s already threatening to spill all over his fifth-nicest suit.
“Well, what are you w-” Tom is cut off by the sensation of soft lips and a wet tongue engulfing the head of his cock. “Fuck!” he shouts, bucking his hips in an attempt to dampen the intense pleasure being delivered to his dick. He needed something to focus on to stave off the rapidly building orgasm just long enough that he can get as much enjoyment out of this experience as humanly possible. He realizes his eyes are clenched shut, and he opens one. Greg is looking up at him, mouth stuffed, eyes watering. Aside from sending another wave of heated arousal straight to his dick, the sight serves to remind Tom of Greg’s request.
“Wow, that mouth of yours…” Tom realizes that isn’t exactly degrading yet, “it’s practically made for me to fuck. You fucking cocksleeve.” It’s perfect, Tom realizes. Focusing on talking to Greg is the exact level of distraction he needs to stop himself from cumming embarrassingly quickly.
Greg moans, and the vibration feels unbelievable. Tom’s dick is big, a rather great source of pride for him, but Greg is managing to take it into his mouth with surprising ease.
“How many guys have you blown before, you slut? Dozens? Hundreds? You let all your stupid stoner friends take turns with your pretty little mouth, Greg?” Greg makes a sound, but Tom doesn’t particularly care to hear an answer from him.
“I bet it’s never enough for you, you greedy piece of shit. I bet you wish you were being used 24 fucking 7, huh? An around the clock cock sock?” Tom laughs, not one of his fake, tension-defusing chuckles but a full, gleeful laugh. “Hell, maybe I could help you out with that! Just keep you under my desk all day! How’s that for a 9 to 5?” Tom punctuates with a hard thrust, eliciting a choked squeak. Greg’s face is bright red, cheeks wet with tears, but he still manages to slide his tongue back and forth along the underside of Tom’s dick. Tom grabs a handful of Greg’s long hair and starts pulling him on and off like the world’s awkwardest fleshlight.
“You’ve probably thought about it, you pervert. I bet it’s a career aspiration for you. Tom Wambsgan’s Executive Cumslut. Maybe I’ll raise your pay, take you out of that pathetic cubicle and give you a nameplate on my door so everyone knows you’re just my personal whore.” Tom ups the pace of his pulling and thrusting. The continuous string of high-pitched, muffled moans drives Tom right up to the edge. He sees no point in delaying the inevitable any longer.
“Good fucking boy.” Tom pulls Greg’s hair so that all but the head is out of his mouth. Then, he cums, groaning out his name.
Greg lingers there, allowing Tom to completely unload into his mouth. Tom’s whole body goes limp, hand releasing Greg’s hair. Just as the sensitivity of Tom’s dick becomes unbearable, Greg pulls off, mouth shut tightly in an expression Tom would laugh at if he could voluntarily move. With long limbs practically flailing, Greg quickly stands up and leans over Tom. He grabs Tom by the chin and pulls him into a kiss. Tom doesn’t process the action until Greg’s tongue forces his mouth open, and warm, salty liquid lands on Tom’s tongue. Tom jolts back to awareness like he’s some sort of X-rated Sleeping Beauty, and he grabs the back of Greg’s neck, kissing back and swallowing his own load for the second, and definitely much better, time.
They continue to kiss, even after all the cum is gone. Tom reaches down, hoping to assist Greg with his hand because he’s definitely earned it. However, he’s met with a warm, wet spot on the fabric of the pants Tom definitely bought for him. He pulls his hand away and laughs into Greg’s mouth. Greg pulls away.
“Whaaat?” Greg’s tone indicates that he might not have even noticed. Tom laughs hysterically, both with amusement and exhilaration.
“You dirty bastard. Get off of me.” Greg steps away and looks down, face flushing when he sees the cum stain on his slacks. When he meets Tom’s eyes again, Tom is smiling, like a lovestruck prom date. Greg smiles back, attempting to comb through his thoroughly tousled hair with his fingers.
“By the way, uh, I think it’s called snowballing.” Greg remarks.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“That night, you said there was a term for, uh,” Greg gestures from Tom’s dick to his mouth to Tom’s mouth, ‘that? So I, uh, looked it up. Some people said it’s snowballing.”
“Huh. Alright. Thanks, Greg.” Tom says, more about the incredible blowjob than the awkard terminology.
“Anytime, Tom.”