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“I mean, did you actually do it?”
Greg hesitates, blinking. Does Tom want him to describe it? He can’t actually want him to describe it.
“Tell me.”
He wants him to describe it.
This is absolutely humiliating.
Greg decides he does not have time to reflect on why, immediately after an admittedly lackluster sexual encounter with a girl he is only nominally interested in, he had the instinct to tell his fucking boss.
His boss, who, apparently, is invested in every gruesome detail.
The loud part of his brain justifies this as calling Tom’s bluff. Greg leans in close to his ear, so close he can smell Tom’s cologne—a scent he and Tom had shopped for weeks prior, that Greg had to approve of before Tom made the final purchase.
He speaks into his ear: “Well, we put our hands—” He pauses, collects himself. “Down each other’s pants.”
“Right.”
“And. Had a bit of a rummage.”
Tom doesn’t immediately react. Greg listens to his unsteady breath.
“Wh—” Tom says, and he looks around, eying possible eavesdroppers. “Which bedroom?”
Greg balks. “Like, in the house?”
“Obviously.” Tom laughs, but it’s strained. “Where did this ill-advised liaison take place, specifically?”
“I—” Greg gestures vaguely. “Upstairs. One of the, the upstairs guest bedrooms.”
“The one with the lock?”
“I don’t know if there was—we didn’t lock the door. We skipped that part,” Greg says, flustered. His stomach won’t stop turning over, and it’s a feeling other than queasy.
Tom squints. “Take me there. I need to see the scene of the crime.”
“To the—to the bedroom? Tom, I hardly think that’s—”
“It’s important, Gregory, that we understand exactly what happened,” Tom whisper-yells, talking only inches from Greg’s mouth. “We need to find the camera in that room, see? So we know exactly what angle was captured.”
“Does it really matter at this point?” Greg says, his face turning pinkish. “Any angle’s a bad angle.”
“And some angles are worse angles.” Tom crosses his arms. “Besides, you coulda left some fucking splooge on the carpet or something. Did you even bother to clean the scene afterwards? Or did you just march right up to me? Huh, Greg? Had to let your boss know before you got to any pillowtalk?”
Greg stares at him. He feels caught. He is distantly aware of a pressure between his legs. “I—there wasn’t anything to, to clean, Tom.”
“Wait, you—” Tom points at him, accusingly. “You didn’t even rummage to fruition, did you?”
If Greg was pink before, he is beet red now. “Tom, would you just fucking—”
“You didn’t,” Tom says, and the look on his face could perhaps be most accurately described as unbridled glee. “Ms. Burberry couldn’t even get you off, huh, pal? You probably couldn’t even get it up.”
“Well, now that you know, then why would you going to the room be even remotely helpful, hm?” Greg hisses back, using his height to his advantage and looming over Tom. “I didn’t even come, so it’s barely a crime.”
Greg is resisting Tom’s attempt to go upstairs even though he’s already resolved to show him. Why, he can’t quite articulate. The word brat floats at the edge of his consciousness.
“Fair point,” Tom acquiesces, taking a step back. “But think about it like this: Doesn’t not coming make it even worse?”
“How could that possibly make it worse?”
“Well, okay, consider these options.” Tom holds up a finger. “Option one: Logan watches a sex tape of you getting it on during his fucking birthday party. By watching the tape, he learns that you can’t even get it up. You need Viagra at fucking thirty.” He holds up a second finger. “Or, option two: Logan watches a sex tape of you, and you proudly and confidently come all over his guestroom. You know, like a real champ. You’re a picture of masculine virility. Which option would you pick?”
If he’s being honest with himself, both options sound equally bad. Greg says, “Option two?”
“That’s right.” Tom looks proud of himself. “And which one did you do?”
Greg shrinks into himself. “Option one?”
“So we’ve got a serious situation on our hands, don’t we?”
Greg is nodding. He does not remember giving his neck the permission to nod.
“And we need to understand exactly what we’re dealing with, right?”
Greg’s neck continues to nod.
“So you’re taking me to the bedroom?”
“Yes,” Greg says, a tad loudly.
Tom looks self-satisfied. He smiles. “Great. Lead the way.” He brandishes grandly, and Greg takes a wobbly step towards the stairs.
The guestroom is blurrier than Greg remembered, likely because Greg is feeling rather faint. Tom does a lap around it, looking up and down every ornately decorated shelf and inspecting every lamp and curtain. Greg just stands at the door, which Tom had closed upon entering, and watches him pace.
Tom finishes his circle. He stands next to Greg, shoulder-to-shoulder, his hand on his chin as though lost in thought. Greg stares straight ahead.
“You’re sure this is the right room?” Tom says.
“I mean, yeah,” Greg says. “I wouldn’t have forgotten that.”
“Hm.” Tom turns on his heel, looking at the door handle. “Looks like this is the one with the lock.” As though he needs to test this obvious observation, he reaches out and turns the lock, sealing them in. He even rattles the doorknob a few times to make sure it’s truly shut tight.
“Definitely locks, alright,” Greg says, trying to get a read on him.
“Appears so.” Tom retreats his hand. “Not that you two lovebirds noticed.”
Greg shrugs.
“Where’d it happen?”
“Wh—like, in the room?” Greg says, his voice squeaking a bit.
“Yes, dumbass, in the room.” Tom rolls his eyes. “I need to see if you’re in view of the security camera.”
“Where’s the camera?” Greg demands, his eyes shooting around the room. Any number of the knickknacks lining the wall could be the offender. “Is it, like, in the picture frame? Or hidden in the lamp? That—like, little box, over there?”
“I’m not telling you,” Tom says simply, quite unbothered.
“Why?”
“Because you’ll change your story if you know, and I need one hundred percent accuracy,” Tom says, which is a rather bold claim to make.
Greg does not challenge it. “Fine. It was—like, at the foot of the bed, here.”
“Here?” Tom walks forward, stepping into the spot. He inspects the floor.
“Yeah.” Greg follows him. “She—she pulls me in, right? And sort of, like, manhandles me this way, towards the bed. I think she wanted to, um.”
“To fuck on the bed.”
“Right.” Greg’s neck is sweating. “But, like, I…I didn’t want to, so I asked if we could. Um. Just stay upright. And she said that was fine.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And she ends up leaning against this bedpost.” Greg points. “I’m in front of her.”
“Right.”
“And, like. I go first.”
“Okay.” Tom pauses. “First at what?”
“Like, I—” Greg groans and covers his face. “I get her off first.”
“While she’s against the bedpost?”
Greg nods, staring above Tom’s head.
Tom backs himself up against the post. “Like, right here?”
Greg doesn’t look at him. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” Again, Tom stops to think. He points in front of him, at the mirror hanging opposite the end of the room. “So, in front of the mirror. You’re both right in front of the mirror.”
“Wait, it’s not—it’s not a double-sided mirror, is it?!”
“Greg,” Tom laughs. “The hallway’s on the other side of that wall. I sure hope it’s not.”
“Oh.” Greg shakes his head. “Yeah. Yeah, no. You’re right.”
“Okay, so, you get her off,” Tom says, absolutely methodical, devoid of emotion.
“That’s right.”
“She does get off.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Quite the casanova, eh, Greg?”
Greg shrugs. “I’m—good with my fingers.”
Tom shuts his eyes and winces. “Greg, what the fuck.”
“You asked.”
“Whatever.”
Odd, Greg finds, that this is the only thing so far that has made Tom hesitate. It doesn’t slow him for long, however. “So, you get her off. What next?”
Greg holds up his hands. “Wait, wait. Hold on. Was she in view of the camera? When I was—”
“This isn’t about her, Greg,” Tom dismisses. “Who cares? It’s not her career that’d be in jeopardy if Logan gets his hands on that tape. Besides, she’s probably bared it all on OnlyFans already.”
“She doesn’t have a—”
“This is about you. So, come on.” Tom raises his eyebrows. “What does she do?”
“She—um.” Greg sighs, runs his hands through his hair.
“Greg, spill. This is serious.”
“She—okay, so, she says it’s my turn, and she spins us around.”
“Right.”
“And she pushes me against the bedpost.”
“Okay.” Tom steps back from the post and turns to face it. “And that would mean you were right…” He gestures out in front of him. “Here.”
“Yeah.”
Tom pauses. His hands are still out on the here gesture.
Greg stares at him. “Wait, was that an order?”
“Come on, Greg, I don’t have all fucking day.”
“You want me to stand there?”
“Well, yes. I’m a method actor,” Tom deadpans.
“What, are you Bridget in this scenario?”
“Well, you certainly can’t pull off that frumpish dress,” Tom says, his expression cold.
“I’m not going to fucking roleplay—”
“Do you want my help or not?” Tom snaps.
The pressure between his legs returns. Greg has to physically restrain himself from doubling over. He says, “yeah.”
“Okay, great. Then yes, Greg.” He pauses. “It’s an order.”
Greg steadies himself for a moment before walking towards the bed. As he steps up to Tom and allows him to gently back him into the bedpost, it crosses his mind that he should be experiencing much more déjà vu. He was just here, after all. It wasn’t even a thirty minutes ago.
Then why does this all feel so wholly new? His emotions, his reactions, the piercing gaze of the partner across from him—it’s different, it’s too different.
In one of the interactions, Greg was sexually invested. He was heightened and alert and chubbing up in his pants. In the other, he wasn’t.
He’s having trouble remembering which was which.
“Okay,” Tom says, low in his throat. He takes a step towards Greg, and Greg cowers against the bedpost. He feels short, for once. Tom does not appear to be perturbed in the slightest. “What’d she do?”
“She—” Greg swallows. He looks above Tom’s head. “She, um—”
“Look at me, Greg,” Tom says, insistent but soft. “It’s important. What’d she do?”
“Um. I can’t be certain, see.” Greg shuts his eyes. “Because, like. I wasn’t—my eyes were closed. If we’re doing this right, my eyes need to be closed.”
“Closed?” Tom scoffs, but it’s gentle. “Didn’t want to be a creep and watch? It’s not considered voyeurism if you’re the one getting the handjob, Greg.”
Greg doesn’t respond. He realizes he’s breathing through his mouth, quick and fast. Some might call it panting.
Tom shifts on the carpet in front of him; Greg can sense it. Tom says, “Why were they closed?”
“It was distracting,” Greg spits out, and offers no further explanation.
“Distracting from…? From what?”
“My—I was thinking about something else.”
“Something else?”
“Someone—er, something else, yeah.”
“Alright,” Tom says. “Bridget probably wouldn’t like to hear that.”
“Bridget isn’t here.”
“Isn’t she?” Tom says, and he still sounds deathly calm. Greg peeks one eye open. Tom is standing a foot away from him, and his hands are behind his back. “Well, given you couldn’t see, what do you think she did?”
“She, like. She felt me.”
“Okay,” Tom says, and his hands reach out and palm Greg’s groin. “Like this?”
It is so sudden and brazen that Greg’s eyes pop open. He looks at Tom, who is expressionless.
“I said, like this?” Tom repeats, and there’s something in the back of his eyes, an unasked question.
Greg feels woozy. His heart is pounding in his chest. His cock is twitching with interest against Tom’s hand. Greg says, “Um. Yeah, like that.”
“What next?” Without being prompted, Tom presses his palm forward.
Greg groans. “Tom, the—cameras, Tom.”
“Don’t worry about the cameras,” Tom hushes. “It’s okay. I’ll handle the cameras.” His hand squeezes.
Greg falls forward, his head hitting Tom’s shoulder. “Fuck. Tom.”
“Wanna stop?” Tom says, and he grinds his hand a tad more. “Do we got all the information we need? We can just go back to the party, if you want.”
“No, I think—” Greg pushes his face into Tom’s neck, speaking close to his ear. “I think we should, probably, um. Figure this out. All the way. Don’t you think?”
Tom hums. “Seems logical to me.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Logical.”
They sit with their decision for a moment, silent save for thundering heartbeats and the occasional stifled noise from Greg. Right before Greg is about to move things along himself, Tom whispers, “What next, Greg?”
Thank goodness.
“My zipper,” he says through his teeth. “She undid my zipper.”
“Okay.”
It’s done before Greg had finished saying the words. Tom’s hands rub against him through the fabric of his briefs.
“These are a tad wet, aren’t they, Gregory?” Tom clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Listen, if she made you come, you can tell me. It’s important I know; this has to be right.”
“She didn’t—” Greg’s mouth is having trouble cooperating; his head is spinning with arousal. “She didn’t, Tom, honest. That’s. Like. Pre-come.”
“Pre-come?” Tom acts surprised, spurring Greg’s embarrassment. “From when?”
“From now,” Greg whimpers, grinding uselessly upward at Tom’s still hand. “From you.”
Tom whistles. “Well, you’re breaking my immersion a tad, then, Gregory. Should be dry as a desert down there, shouldn’t it? I am Bridget, after all.”
“Tom, would you fucking—”
“I’m trying to go method, and you’re making this rather difficult.”
“I swear to God—”
“Fine, fine.” Tom drags his hand upwards, teasing him through the fabric, and Greg moans. “I’ll overlook it. Just this once. Were you clothed?”
“Were we—”
“Come on, Greg. Good, clean, clothed, BYU-style sex, was it? I bet it was.”
“No, I wasn’t wearing—” Greg’s glad Tom brought it up, actually, because he’s overheating like a motherfucker. He quickly pulls his blazer and shirt off, tossing the offending pieces elsewhere.
Tom looks at Greg’s chest with approval before again reaching between his legs to seize his still-clothed cock. “What’s next on Bridget’s agenda, huh, big guy?”
“T—touch me, man, come on,” Greg says, impatiently, and he makes the move to pull his cock out of his briefs himself.
“Needy,” Tom mumbles, sounding distantly pleased as his hand makes its first skin-on-skin contact. “Although I’m not sure Bridget appreciated being called ‘man.’”
Is Tom really gonna keep this “Bridget” act up the entire time? Will Tom only ever fuck him if he’s doing it through the guise of Bridget? If that’s the case, Greg should probably go find her at the party after this, drop to one knee, and propose. He should probably ask for her opinion on strap-ons as well.
Greg offers no complaints about Tom’s act in the present moment. If this is what it takes, then this is what it takes. “She’d go faster,” Greg forces out, his knees feeling weak beneath him. He clings to Tom’s side for purchase, still resting his head on Tom’s shoulder. “She’d definitely go faster.”
“Would she, now?” Tom obliges, tilting his head to the side in a sort of invitation. Greg turns his head, pressing his mouth to Tom’s neck. “What else would she be doing?”
“She—ah—she’d, um, spit, please.”
Tom grimaces. “Bridget is a lady. She wouldn’t spit.” He pushes Greg back, holding him at arm’s length, and Greg doesn’t know if he’s ever felt more embarrassed and turned on in his life. Tom holds out a hand, slick with pre-come. “If you want spit, you spit.”
Greg doesn’t hesitate and spits into Tom’s palm. Tom, for his part, barely acknowledges the depravity of what he just let Greg do, instead pulling Greg forward by the hip with one hand and wrapping his other back around Greg’s cock.
Greg’s face, again, finds Tom’s neck. Tom’s hand is moving quickly but with insistent pressure, the glide smoother now. He offsets the smoothness with an occasional scrape of his fingernail, causing Greg to shudder and sink his teeth into his flesh.
“Ouch, Greg, the fuck,” Tom says, but Greg is no fool, he can feel the bulge pressed against his thigh, he can clock the way Tom tilts his neck further for more access. “Seriously?”
“Sorry,” Greg mumbles, then whines. “But, um. Bridget let me do this.”
That gives Tom pause. “Really?”
“Yeah, she—she loves it.” Greg, completely out of his mind, gives a gentle kiss to the teeth marks that are threatening to get red and angry against Tom’s skin.
Tom shudders. “Well, Bridget doesn’t have a father-in-law who’d skin him alive if he strutted around his birthday party looking like a Dracula victim.”
Greg groans. “Then at least let me—I really need to, like, do something with my mouth. What can I do?”
“Fine,” Tom sighs, still stroking him through their conversation. “Just. Below the collar.”
“Thank you,” Greg says, and he pulls back, pushing Tom’s blazer off of his shoulders and undoing the buttons of his shirt with deft fingers. Before long, Tom is topless, and Greg sinks his face into his shoulder with a sigh of relief.
“Better?” Tom whispers, sounding a bit gone.
Greg nods, and Tom continues jerking him off, slow and dirty. Greg doesn’t complain about the speed; it’s a pace set by Tom, after all, and Greg is finding he likes a lot of Tom’s decisions. Like the decision to rub a disgustingly tender thumb against the head of his cock, or to slide a second hand down the back of Greg’s pants, sweet and wanting and suggestive.
Greg is finished off that way: his teeth in Tom’s shoulder and Tom’s voice in his ear, incessantly droning about if Bridget is doing it right, if he can feel Bridget’s arousal against his leg, if he’d ever let Bridget fuck him until he forgets how to walk. Despite this, it’s Tom’s name that Greg gasps right before he comes. Tom, recognizing the situation, quickly removes his hand to limit the mess.
As Greg’s breath steadies and he comes down from his peak, he begins to clock how Tom has begun to hump his thigh. Something about the shamelessness of it makes Greg realize Tom isn’t completely aware of his own actions. Greg clings to Tom’s hips to encourage the movement, but when Greg starts to moan again, Tom suddenly stops. “Greg,” he says, his voice thick. “You’ve made a mess of yourself.”
Greg glances down, dazed. He has, indeed, gotten some come down his front.
“Your fault,” Greg mumbles. “You, like, didn’t catch it all.” He reaches his hands out to Tom’s hips, wanting to encourage Tom to grind against him again.
Tom pulls back. “I did my best.” Tom holds up his hand as evidence of his clean-up efforts.
Greg winces. “Ew.”
“Yeah, ew. You’re lucky there’s a bathroom in here.” Tom storms off, leaving Greg confused and boneless at the edge of the bed.
Greg slumps down, sitting on the mattress and falling back, letting himself be enveloped by the pillows. Fuck Tom for giving him hopes for a round two. Tom’s probably jerking off in the bathroom right now, leaving Greg alone in his own mess. Greg will clean himself in a bit; he just needs a sec.
Tom, however, is back relatively quickly. His hand is clean, which Greg had expected. What he didn’t expect was the warm towel that is suddenly being brushed against his pelvis and stomach. Tom cleans him in silence for a few moments, and Greg’s too dazed to comment on the fact that Bridget definitely didn’t need to do aftercare.
“Got everything I could,” Tom says after a while. He stands, and Greg’s eyes are immediately drawn to his obvious erection. Coupled with the massacre that is his shoulder, it’s a tantalizing image. “Not too bad, considering the circumstances.”
“You need anything, there, Tom?” Greg says, worrying his bottom lip.
Tom glares at him as though he is completely unaware of his own arousal, despite the fact that he had been grinding it into Greg mere minutes ago. “What, like a glass of water? I’m fine, thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.” Tom puts his hand in his pockets.
“Tom.”
“I think we’re done here.”
“Can I blow you, Tom?”
Tom looks at the clock. “I bet Logan is looking for us.”
“I’ll pull you off if you want.”
“And I bet Bridget is looking for you.”
“Tom, do you want to fuck me? You can fuck me.”
“Greg, don’t be so vulgar,” Tom says, facing him, his reddened skin betraying his feigned uninterest. He turns around. “It’s no way to speak to a lady. Besides, you didn’t want Bridget on the bed.”
Greg’s arousal suddenly transforms into annoyance. “Come on, dude, you can’t go out into the party like that.”
“You can’t either. Your limp dick is out, man.” Tom bends over, picking up his shirt. Without a look back, he walks to the bathroom.
Slightly embarrassed, Greg sits up as well, eventually resigning himself to finding his discarded jacket. He dresses in silence, glancing occasionally at the bathroom door.
“So, the. The camera,” Greg eventually says, standing in front of the mirror, making sure all of his buttons found the right hole. “Did you figure it out? How much was caught? The angle, and all that? Should we—um. Should Bridget and I be worried?”
“It’s fine,” Tom calls out from the other side of the door. He sounds cool and indifferent. “I’ll get your sex tape, Greg. Before Logan can see it. You owe me one.”
“Thanks. Are you coming out?” Greg listens for the telltale signs of someone jerking off, but Tom is quiet.
“I need a minute,” Tom says after a while.
Greg stares at the wood panels. “Fine. I’m…I’ll go out to the party.”
“You do that.”
Greg walks to the door that will take him back to the hallway. He places his hand on the knob, then pauses. “Tom,” he calls out behind him, one last check.
“Fuck. Wh—what?” Tom’s voice, Greg realizes, is now sounding stilted, a bit breathy.
“There was no camera, was there?”
No response from Tom other than one shuddery exhale.
“You made that up, didn’t you?” Greg turns, facing the bathroom. “Why?”
“You owe me one,” Tom says, his voice husky and restrained.
“Noted.” Greg opens the door.