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Under the Boardroom Table

Category: Gay Male
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DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the result of my imagination or are used within a fictitious context. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, places, or incidents is entirely coincidental.

WARNING: This story contains graphic descriptions of male-male sexual relations and acts. You must be of 18 years of age or older to continue. If you are offended by the material suggested herein, DO NOT read any further. You have been warned.

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–text– = thoughts

*text* = emphasis

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Even though I’d decided that staying rather than leaving my job at Becker Advertising, Vancouver, made for fewer financial problems, it hadn’t stopped me from having second thoughts about returning to work for my former-ex-employer, Maxwell James Becker IV, for the second—or was it third?—time.

In any case, my second thoughts were rapidly becoming *second* second thoughts.

–I will not fall asleep. I will not fall asleep. I will not…–

The mantra I’d been playing in my head like a broken record was doing more to put me to sleep than keep me awake.

I had been barely able to keep my eyes open for the better half of the last two hours—which I considered a rousing success, no pun intended, in itself—as I slouched in the comfy, cushioning leather of a wheeled office chair, making every effort to appear attentive to the conversations going on around me. Now on the verge of unconsciousness, I fought every natural instinct I had to pass out on the spot as I struggled with borderline narcolepsy.

Becker had insisted I sit in on one of the company’s monthly budget consultations, even though I wasn’t being promoted or paid any better to do so. His explanation for forcing me to endure what was evolving into a corporate jargon word-war was ‘to make things a little more interesting’.

Presently, I could imagine staring at the floor as ‘a little more interesting’.

I stifled a yawn, trying not to look as bored as I really was, and attempted to distract myself from my ennui by glancing around the boardroom. The Vancouver office of B.A. was more often used for official business consultations and paper-pushing than anything else, which explained the need to keep its three professionally-decorated boardrooms in near-pristine condition. The interior decor of each room featured a simple pattern of recessed ceiling lights which bathed a warm glow over the solid oak table positioned beneath them. The periwinkle-blue tint of walls merged seamlessly into the floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the cityscape of downtown Vancouver, a glass-and-concrete maze of buildings with occasional glimpses of snow-capped mountain peaks, and the vast Pacific coiled in English Bay.

Ironically enough, although it was nearing winter weather, it was colder inside the boardroom than out in the streets. I’d not even been in the room for thirty seconds, and I could clearly see I wasn’t welcome: compared to the starched-suit businessmen of B.A.V, I was probably no higher up the corporate ladder than a fax machine. I’d noted their unimpressed airs as I hastily rushed into the ten-o’-clock meeting… forty-five minutes late. Becker had glanced at me reproachfully for my tardiness, but said nothing, as I mumbled an apology to the room and I sunk into the only free chair next to him. My occupational faux-pas was soon forgotten, and it was back to business. Very. Boring. Business.

“—volume discount should be the *last* resort, not—”

“—even thinking about the long-term losses in—”

“—severing ties with less profitable contracts. It’s the best alternative to—”

“—an unnecessary increase in affirmative disclosure—”

A piercing two-fingered whistle silenced the cacophonous table. In an almost comical manner, everyone simultaneously turned to see Becker, settling back comfortably into his chair at the head of the table with what I called his ‘keep-this-shit-up-and-somebody’s-gonna-get-fired’ face. He didn’t look angry, but that was the thing with him: Becker’s pissed-off point peaked well below any visible display of anger. When he gets angry, he gets quiet. And he had gotten really quiet.

When he finally did speak, Becker’s voice seemed as though barely a notch above the minimal audible pitch for human ears.

“It seems to me… that you all spend a ridiculous amount of time just…” he paused, thoughtfully, as if searching for the right word, “…bitching about this company’s expenses. And if that’s not offensive enough, you actually have the balls to suggest stabilizing our monetary situation by… and I quote,” he added, reading from the stenographer-type notebook before him, “…’severing ties with less profitable contracts’?” He threw up his hands in disgust. “Honestly, is *this* why I’m paying you people? To pull ideas out of your asses?” He rose from his chair, glaring around the boardroom, and I was not at all surprised to see no one meet his eyes.

“What’s more…” he continued, stalking towards a whiteboard across the room, picking up a red Expo dry-erase marker, and turning to address the room, “…you fail to take into consideration that, not only do your ‘ideas’ *suck*, they actually threaten *further* financial instability, never mind jeopardizing company-client relations. It’s a simple matter of numbers, people…” He turned to circle several multiple-digit figures someone else had previously scribbled on the board.

“Since you all seem so keen to reduce excessive costs…” He paused for dramatic effect, then began to slash large, angry ‘X’s over the numbers he’d circled. “…why don’t we start with *this* office’s expenditure? Hmm? Downsize a few departments, cut back on unnecessary employee budgeting…” He trailed off, clearly amused by the horrified reactions he’d garnered from his employees: some were almost catatonic; others looked as if he were cancelling Christmas.

Satisfied that his point had been made, Becker re-capped the Dry-Erase marker, set it back down at the whiteboard, and returned to slouch languidly in his seat.

“Just something to think about for the upcoming holiday season,” he added, giving me a wink. I covered my mouth to hide my grin. I knew he was less than thrilled by the efforts his staff had been putting in at work lately, but we both knew that the company was having no terribly pressing financial difficulties. Still, I knew it amused him to stretch the truth a little bit to rattle the not-so-efficient members of Becker Advertising.

Another wave of sleepiness struck, and I couldn’t hide my yawn from Becker, who raised an inquisitive eyebrow. He moved to jot something on the notebook in front of him, then slid the pad casually over so I could read it.

You’re bored, his elegantly scrawled cursive declared.

No, I’m tired, I scribbled back, underlining twice for extra emphasis. He read as I wrote, snorting soft laughter in response. No one seemed to noticed as I shoved his notebook back at him, only to have him write a little more before sliding it back to me. His second message boasted supreme confidence in every letter:

I can fix that.

Pondering his words, I watched the trademark Becker smirk evaporate with a wary curiosity, replaced by his business Becker scowl. Anything he had in mind at this point could only end up as the pulling of a fire alarm or an employee cleaning out his desk.

I guess he was feeling pretty generous today because neither ensued. He cleared his throat loudly to get the room’s attention before making his stark ultimatum: “Unless you can do better for me, *gentlemen*,” the slight mocking tone would ensure the board inferred otherwise. “I may have to recalibrate B.A.V.’s budget sooner rather than later. Understood?” The board nodded enthusiastically. “Good.” Becker nodded towards the door. “Get out.”

The room emptied in seconds. As soon as we were alone, Becker turned in his chair to face me, one leg crossed at the knee, fingers tented nonchalantly over his chest.

“Trouble sleeping, Michaels?” he inquired cheerfully. I half-heartedly glared back.

“Observant,” I yawned again, accusingly adding, “It’s your fault.” Which it was.

His grin grew at my accusation. “Me? You mean… do I keep you *up*—” at the intonation, he suggestively slid his gaze down towards my crotch “—all night?” I inhaled slowly through my teeth, exhaling in an irritated sigh. For the past several weeks, we’d spent almost every other night engaged in vigorous bouts of mind-blowing marathon sex: while most of Vancouver was waking up at sunrise, Becker and I would be falling asleep.

Now, at every opportunity, Becker would say or do something to purposely arouse me, knowing that his efforts would lead to one of two outcomes: I’d either tell him to fuck off, or beg him to fuck me. Most frequently, it happened to be the latter of the two. He was trying me again now, testing me for a sign of arousal.

–And he’s getting real good at it, isn’t he, Alex?– My pants were becoming uncomfortably tight.

“Do I make it *hard* for you to sleep, Michaels?” My breathing quickened, and I closed my eyes in a childishly futile attempt to pretend I was anywhere but next to him while memories flooded my mind at his intentional sexual innuendos like an erotically charged slideshow: his hungry mouth devouring mine; our sweat-damp bodies tangled in the silken sheets of his massive bed. The two of us fucking in the elevator; hand-jobs in the kitchen, blow-jobs in the bathroom.

“I didn’t think I was *riding* you all the time.” Like a dysfunctional metronome, my heart began to beat wildly. More memories: the paralyzing pleasure as he mounted me from behind and drove into my tightness. Him fucking me in his bed; fucking me in mine. Our harsh, ragged breathing as we come in unison. A possessive arm thrown around me as I fall asleep at daybreak.


I opened my eyes to see Becker watching me with an expression you might find on a cat stalking a mouse. I tried shifting in my chair to ease my throbbing stiffness, which only worked to draw more attention towards the telltale tent in my pants.

Becker shot me a smug smirk. “Why, Michaels, was it something I said?”

I mimicked his earlier intonation. “Yeah, you’re a real prick.”

He laughed, reaching forward to grab a fistful of my hair and pull my lips to his. His tongue plundered my mouth, teeth nipping teasingly at my lips. Dazed, I closed my eyes again, this time surrendering to his dominance and moaning my approval. Clutching to his larger frame, I felt him smile beneath our hungry kisses as he palmed my rising stiffness through my pants with his free hand. My traitorous member arched itself further for his fingers as they drifted along the metal track of my zipper.

“Mmpfh!” I mumbled into his lips, and we pulled apart, mirrored reflections of one another with swollen lips, heaving chests, and stiff arousals. I could tell he was mentally divesting me of my clothing and fantasizing about all the multiple positions in which he planned to take me before the day was done. I would no doubt let him, but first…

“Becker,” I tried for the most assertive tone I could manage between arousal-calming breaths. “Just so you know… I am *never* coming… to another board meeting… again.”

* * * * *

Despite my adamant refusal, Becker managed to drag me into one more meeting later that afternoon, promising he would never make me attend another if I could stay awake through this one.

“But I stayed awake through the last one,” I pointed out.

He shook his head. “Barely. You don’t have to pay attention, Michaels, but if I have to sit through *one* more corporate snooze-fest alone, I’m going to throw a chair out the window. Again. With or without someone still sitting in it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Drama que—what do you mean, ‘again’?!” He waved a hand dismissively.

“Don’t change the topic. I’ll make it up to you la-ter,” he added in sing-song, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively in an expression so comedic and out of place on his face that I had to grin.

Soon, seats at the long, rectangular table began filling. Once more, I sat to Becker’s left at the head of the boardroom table. I glanced up and down at all the faces in the room: some I’d seen this morning; others during my first days at B.A.V.; most I’d never seen at all. As I watched them dig stacks of file folders from various briefcases, I leaned in towards Becker.

“No promises,” I whispered. “I give me ten, fifteen minutes, tops, before my head hits the table.”

“Give yourself a little more credit: my money’s on twenty,” he whispered back, grinning.


As the meeting got underway, I’d noticed Becker began to watch me more than his employees. This soon became such a distraction to me, I hadn’t even noticed the time passing until nearly an hour later. The meeting was almost over when the last man to speak, some man Becker addressed as “O’Neill”, began his presentation with a slideshow for visual aid. I silently exchanged an “are-you-fucking-kidding-me?” look with Becker, who rolled his eyes, silently mouthing “kiss-ass”.

O’Neill was minutes into his presentation, and I was minutes into making a mental note never to do Becker any favours again, when I felt something tugging at the fly of my pants. Slowly, I glanced over at Becker, who, although he seemed oddly attentive to the slideshow, was sitting noticeably closer to me than he had been moments before. He was now leaning slightly in my direction, ever so carefully to ensure I—or, at least, part of me—was within reach.

Catching my eye, he brought his right index finger to his lips in a ‘shushing’ gesture. His left hand, I noticed, was hidden by the solid oak boardroom table, positioned above my fly and slowly tugging it down. I shifted in my chair, my face heating up as I blushed intensely. I felt such a surge of sexual desire at the idea of a hand-job in the busy boardroom that I rotated the swivel chair to give him better access, casually hunching over the table to hide his hand from view.

I straightened in my seat (in more than one way) once his fingers found and curled around my semi-erect penis, tugging it gently from my pants. Becker stifled a snort of amusement and O’Neill, thinking the sound was meant for him, paused mid-speech. Several faces turned towards our end of the table: I froze like a deer in headlights, but Becker, never missing a beat, prompted the man to continue with a wave of his free hand.

While everyone’s attention resumed elsewhere, I could feel Becker’s eyes watching for my reaction as he began fisting my hardness, hidden from view. Catching the few drops of precum that had begun to ooze from the tip, he massaged the fluid along the shaft lazily. Every now and then, his fingers would shift to tickle the underside of my balls and I had to bite my lower lip to keep from moaning out loud. I clenched and unclenched my fists around the armrests of my chair in heated desire, unconsciously mimicking the grip of his hand around my arousal.

His thumb grazed the sensitized head, and without thinking, my right hand shot at a lightning-fast speed under the table to close around his. His hand stilled under mine, hesitating, as if thinking his attentions might no longer be wanted. I turned to reassure him with a slight nod of my head. He nodded in return, understanding, and replaced his hand over mine so we stroked my cock together. His free hand had disappeared, and I belatedly noticed his arm moving slowly, subtly, under the cover of the table.

I met his emerald stare with a look that all but flashed with my arousal: jacking me off had turned him on. My breathing became shallow and fast, my throat parched, my member tensing up in our grasp, warning me of my approaching orgasm. The erotic friction became more than I could stand: the thrill of getting close-to-caught forcing me to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep myself from shouting his name as I came forcefully, gushing over and over into our entwined hands. Becker, also biting his lip, barely restrained his own shudder as he milked his own semen from his body.

Keeping his left hand around mine, we continued to coax the last few pulses of seed from my cock. It took every ounce of self-control to keep from twitching and shaking as I recovered from the intensity of my orgasm and worked to subdue my erratic breathing. I subconsciously registered Becker replacing my softening member in my pants and fastening the zipper. Sated, I was surprisingly indifferent when he wiped both our hands clean on my pants; it was really only fair since it was my cum coating the two of us.

Fortunately, the slideshow was soon over, and no one had noticed all the activity at our end of the table. Becker abruptly adjourned the meeting and ordered everyone out. In a flurry of movement, people rushed to pack up their papers and escape, quickly leaving us alone in the empty room. I leaned back lazily into my chair, closed my eyes, and sighed softly, still lost in a hazy sea of post-orgasmic pleasure.

“Enjoyed that, did you?” I could hear calm, collected control waging a war with rough lust in his voice, and lazily cracked an eye to find Becker towering over me with his typical look-at-me-aren’t-I-just-the-sexiest-bitch-on-the-planet attitude.

“Are you really so insecure that you actually need me to answer that?” I retorted.

He laughed and hauled me from my seat. Palming my ass possessively, he pulled us together at the hips, and slanted his lips over mine in another claiming kiss. Our tongues intertwined, a stark reminder in déjà vu of how our fingers laced as I came in our hands. When he pulled away, we were both panting for air as he pressed his forehead to mine, levelling our eyes to meet.

“If I didn’t really care, do you think I would’ve asked?” he murmured quietly, eyes glittering with desire. His eyes dropped to where our erections strained for more touch, pausing to smirk in satisfaction at the drying patch of cum on my pants, slowly working his stare up my body.

I snorted, glancing over at a darker patch of his pants where he must have wiped his own cum. “You just can’t get enough of me, can you?”

He teasingly took his lower lip between his teeth and held it there; another trademark-Becker sexual invitation he knew I couldn’t resist accepting, as he leaned in close to whisper huskily into my ear.

“Don’t think it’ll kill me to try.”

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