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This was not normally how Jon spent his Saturday nights. In a dark back room of some immeasurably seedy pub, debating his life choices.
Normally, he’d be at work. It didn’t matter that he had Saturday off, nor that he’d be the only one there. He had work to do. So much work, literal piles full, stacks upon stacks, lining the shelves, covering the tables, and, with Jon’s luck, probably stuffed under the floorboards as well.
Lord, was he tired.
No, tired wasn’t quite the right word. He was exhausted, empty, running on fumes. But he was restless. Jon knew what he needed wasn’t sleep. It was release.
He was too frustrated to cry, and his usual methods of distracting himself didn’t help. His mind wandered no matter what he was doing, pulling him back towards work. He’d brought some files home the other day, in what he was now considering to be a monumental mistake. No matter what he set off to do instead, Jon always found himself crawling back to those papers, edging through them at a snail’s pace that left him feeling worse than before.
Something had to give. It was for the good of his career, really. There was no way he’d ever get anything done feeling like this.
His solution was, admittedly, a bit drastic. Still, it was the only thing he could think of that had a chance of truly helping.
The only reason Jon even knew of the club was because Tim had taken him there once before, more to mess with him than anything else. It wasn't the kind of place Jon frequented. Not since uni, at least. Dark and dirty, with graffiti and phone numbers drawn on every sticky surface. Holes in the bathroom stall walls. Grating rock music played through crackling speakers. And, of course, the thing in the back room. Tim had told him about it that night they’d gone, drunk and cackling at Jon’s scandalised face. He’d offered to take Jon to see, mumbling something about VIP statuses and customer discounts. By then the clock had been pushing twelve, and Jon decided to cut himself off the moment he realised he was considering it.
He almost wished he hadn’t, if only to get a better idea of what he was walking into. Oh well- he knew soon enough anyways.
The conversation with the bartender was nerve-wracking. He’d come in early to avoid the brunt of the crowd, but there were still a great deal of patrons already. Some were looking his way, and Jon hoped dearly it wasn’t because anyone recognised him. Actually spitting out what he was there for turned out to be a more difficult task than he had envisioned, especially with all those eyes on him. He’d dressed for the occasion, shedding his button-up and slacks for a loose top and the shortest skirt he owned- which was, admittedly, still not short. His pants and bra were left at home. Not wearing them made it seem more real, more lurid. Besides, Jon didn’t trust them to be in the same place they’d been left once the night ended.
Once he managed to get his words out, the bartender looked him up and down. Thoroughly. Jon tried not to shift too awkwardly, knowing how riggish he must have appeared. His choice of clothes (or lack thereof) had to have done him some favours, however, because a moment later the man took out a ring of keys and led him behind back.
The thing looked more like a coffin than anything else. Upright and wooden, with sections cut out of the front. Some helpful soul had written the words “GROPE BOX” over the side in black marker, accompanied by various other scribbles.
Preparation was unceremonious. Jon stripped and shoved his things into a box to be taken behind the bar until his timer went off. He fought the impulse to cover himself as the man unlocked the box, swinging the front open and helping Jon inside. The interior was small and cramped. Metal cuffs had been drilled into the bottom corners, far enough apart to keep the legs of whoever wore them spread. As Jon stepped into them, he tried experimentally to close his thighs. No give. A similar pair of restraints could be found around waist height. Jon slipped his wrists through those as well. The barkeeper went and tightened both sets, eliminating any possibility of slipping out.
“You wanted a gag, right?” the man asked, leering.
“Yes, thank you.” Jon answered, heart beating fast. He watched as the man walked to the only other facet of the room, a rickety little table with a plastic bin on top, and began to rummage through. A second later, he returned. In his hand was, surely enough, a gag. Though not the kind Jon had expected. It was the ring sort, large and unaccommodating. Jon grunted as the man tugged on the straps, fitting it tightly to his jaw. Then, the man leaned back and shut him in.
With the door closed, Jon couldn’t move at all. The only parts of him that weren’t pressed up against the wood were where the wall was cut out- his chest and groin, left on display. All he could see was darkness, but the cold air left his skin prickling. It was easily the most vulnerable position he’d ever been in. He was so exposed, so helpless. No sight, no speech, no nothing. He’d never get out on his own, the only thing to do was wait until his time was done and hope they’d remember to let him out on time. Until then, he was at the mercy of anyone and everyone who came by, unable to even see who was in the room with him, let alone touching him.
Speaking of which, the bartender wasted no time in taking advantage. One hand dug its claws into Jon’s breast, the other palming his hot cunt. Jon gasped through his gag, jerking reflexively. It didn’t matter much- the cuffs held him almost perfectly still.
“‘S too bad I’m on shift right now,” the man muttered. He traced the seam of Jon’s lips, teasing, then pulled back and gave them a sudden, hard smack that left Jon yelping. “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ll swing by on my break. Can’t wait to see how you’ll be by then.” Then he left. Jon listened as his footsteps faded, cunt still smarting.
He was already wet. The realisation sent a flush of shame between his legs. He tried to squeeze his thighs together. No luck. After a few moments of uncomfortable squirming, Jon found rutting against the door to be just as impossible as he’d assumed. There wasn’t a single thing he could do to provide the barest friction to where he needed it most.
He didn’t know how long it took for someone to come in. It felt like forever. Trapped and deprived of his senses, all he could do was strain his ears listening.
The band hadn’t gotten any better since Jon had settled in, bass reverberating through everything, although the sounds of talking and laughter were picking up. More people had arrived, then. A lot more, apparently. The last time he’d been there, it wasn’t nearly as crowded. Jon’s mind raced. How many people would see him like this tonight? Would have their way with him? He was yanked from his thoughts by the creak of the door being opened.
His breath sped as slow footsteps approached him, ending just in front of the box. Two rough, calloused hands met his breasts, pushing them out and digging into the soft flesh. Jon let out a tiny moan before he could stop himself. He’d planned to stay silent during this excursion in order to protect his anonymity, if not his dignity, but the ring gag made it much more difficult.
His visitor didn’t spend long on his tits, moving down onto his opening. Jon shivered as a finger breached him. They weren’t being gentle. Thankfully, his own slick more than compensated.
“Shit. Bet you haven’t even been fucked yet, huh?” came a voice, low and slurring.
Jon didn’t answer. Fortunately, it didn’t seem the stranger expected him to. A second finger pushed in along the first, both pumping in and out again. Meanwhile, Jon heard the clink of a belt buckle being undone. Both fingers pulled out abruptly, and he barely had time to brace himself before the man’s cock was driving into him. He let out a whine at the stretch, no way to ease the brutal angle.
“Well, don’t worry. Pretty thing like you’s gonna get all the dick you need tonight.”
The man began to thrust. Finally, finally, there was friction. Jon moaned, rocking into it as much as he could. As the pace picked up, palms returned to his breasts and squeezed, practically using them as handholds. He didn’t mind- he was too busy trying to meet the man’s hips in a maddening chase for pressure.
It was over too soon. The stranger came with a groan, cock buried deep. Jon took advantage of the moment to grind his clit down against his partner’s navel, still full. The pleasure heightened and heightened, quickly approaching crescendo. Then stopped abruptly.
Jon made a noise of protest as the stranger pulled out, stepping back and ending any contact between them. The sudden emptiness sent him reeling. He was wet and open and his clit was throbbing- he needed something to touch him, anything. But there was nothing, no reprieve. All he felt was the unrelenting strength of the box around him. That, and cooling come as it dripped slowly from his cunt. He jerked in his bonds, desperate, but they held tight. Jon growled in frustration. He heard the man laugh, then the zip of his fly.
Jon struggled even after the man had left, failing to find any sort of satisfaction. He’d been so close. On the very cusp of release. And now he was behind it, writhing and anguished. Just as he began to resign himself to his fate, the door opened once more. Jon practically cried with relief.
There were more footsteps this time. Three people? No, two. Jon dragged his attention away from his own sorry state to try and land it on the newcomers, hope lighting up inside him. Maybe he’d come soon afterall. He strained in place, body begging to be touched. His company didn’t seem to notice. Instead, they were talking. Jon forced himself to listen, though it was the last thing he cared for at that moment. There was something odd about what the two were saying. Not their words, but… how they said it. Familiar, in a strange way.
“-can’t believe you!” one of them hissed.
The other was laughing, and that too was familiar. “You can’t?”
“Ugh!” the first one whisper-shouted, like he didn’t want Jon to hear. “This- this is, oh my god, Tim, when you told me you’d help me de-stress this was not what I thought you meant!”
Jon’s blood ran cold. It took him a moment to realise why, his thoughts floundering. And then it hit him. The reason he recognised the voices was because he worked with them. Tim and, oh, oh good lord, Martin. He went stock-still, almost too terrified to breathe.
How could he be such an idiot? Jon had already known Tim frequented this pub, that he’d had access to the seedier parts of it. And of course he’d brought someone, he’d brought Jon in the first place. The hardest part to believe was that it was Martin with him. Out of all their coworkers, he was perhaps the one Jon would’ve expected the least. Tim had friends in all the departments, people whose presence would’ve made more sense. That loud man from Artefact Storage he’d appeared to get along with, for example, or maybe that woman who’d formed the Institute’s party planning committee. Not Martin. Stumbling, awkward Martin, who wore frayed sweaters over his button-ups and brought Jon tea in the mornings.
The conversation continued, neither one aware of Jon’s inner turmoil.
“In all seriousness, I think this could help,” Tim said, sobering slightly.
“I really can’t see how!” responded Martin, voice high. Jon could envision the blush on his face clear as day.
“I know you’re not looking for hookups right now and I totally respect that, but you gotta release some of that tension, mate. Not sure how much more your hand can take.”
“It’s not that bad-“
“Uh, yeah it is. Pretty sure you’re going to combust from repression soon.”
Martin made a sound of irritation. “I’m not repressed, okay! And it’s not that I don’t want to hook up. I’m just busy. There’s a lot going on right now, with- with work and things, and I don’t have room for much else. You know how far my flat is. The last time I slept over at someone’s I got to work half an hour late and Jon glared at me all day! And he’s already upset with me, I think, for turning in the last investigative stack late. On Friday I offered him a cup of tea and he practically fought me off.”
“See?” Tim argued, “Exactly why you need to vent some frustration. Just because Jon loves to ride your dick doesn’t mean you can’t use it for anything else.”
Martin sputtered at that, practically choking. Jon wasn’t much better. It wasn’t his fault he was already so worked up, and the image his mind supplied at Tim’s words didn’t help. He let out a whimper and the other two went quiet.
For an awful few seconds, Jon thought they might’ve recognised him. He imagined their heads turning, seeing his tits, his cunt, realizing it was their boss tied up inside the box for public use. It was as arousing as it was terrifying.
“God- we shouldn’t even be talking about this right now, there’s a person in there.”
“Not much of a person right now,” Tim said casually. “Trust me, the kind of people who put themselves in there, they want to be treated like toys.”
“Jesus, Tim.” Martin muttered, his breath shaky.
Jon sagged with relief. They hadn’t recognised him. Not yet, at least. He felt himself flush as what Tim said registered, grateful his blush was hidden. It was true. Jon didn’t want to be treated like a person. He didn’t want to talk, or make choices, or think. All he really wanted was to orgasm.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Tim said. “But if you want to, that cunt’s not going to yell at you for misfiling papers.”
“I- oh, fine. I guess it can’t hurt.” Martin relented.
“That’s the spirit! Want me to get you another beer?”
“N...no, I’m okay.”
Jon tensed as fingers brushed his nipple. Martin’s fingers, large and curious and more confident than Jon would have thought. He relaxed into the touch, only to yelp when both nipples were pinched hard. One was tugged away from his chest, then the other, alternating spikes of pain that left Jon squirming. There was no way out, no way to escape the pleasure-pain of every twist to his poor little buds. Just tears prickling the corners of his eyes as he stifled himself, hyper-aware that any sound he made could risk his anonymity. The assault continued. Meanwhile, Tim and Martin were still talking. Jon was barely able to tune into their conversation.
“Wow, mean.”
“Oh, be quiet,” said Martin, giving Jon a particularly sharp pinch and snorting when he cried out. “You’re the one who wanted me to have fun. Hm. I think they may be gagged?”
Martin let go of him, finally, and Jon slumped with relief. His chest throbbed. He wanted so badly to reach up and soothe the ache, hands twitching where they were stuck at his sides. Then, without warning, one of his nipples was enveloped in wet heat. Jon nearly shouted through his gag as Martin took it into his mouth. He sucked hard, dragging Jon’s nipple over his teeth and flicking it with his tongue. It was horrible and wonderful at the same time, sensation nearly too strong for him to bear. He knew without a doubt in his mind that if Martin had touched his clit, perhaps even slid a finger into him, he would have come. But Martin didn’t. So Jon didn’t either. Instead, he was pulled torturously back and forth, always a hair’s breadth away from what he needed, unable to cross the threshold.
Martin didn’t stop until he’d given Jon’s other tit the same treatment as the first. By then Jon felt more a mess than he could ever remember, sweat clinging as his muscles tended in vain, helpless. His nipples hurt. The cool air stung, every inch of him feeling red-hot.
There was a moment of stillness after Martin stopped playing with his breasts. All Jon could hear was his own panting.
“Slutty thing, huh?” Tim asked, but he too sounded breathless. There was the soft, continuous rustling of fabric from his direction. He had a hand down his trousers, then. Jon wondered how long it’d been there. Since Martin had started fondling him? Or somewhere in the middle, when Jon was too overwhelmed to notice anything besides his own body?
God. These were his coworkers. His assistants. And they’d seen him bound, gagged, set up like a doll to be squeezed and fucked. They didn’t know it was their boss they were ruining, that they were talking down as if he couldn’t hear or they didn’t care if he did. But Jon knew. And he would have to go to work tomorrow and meet their eyes. Would have to listen to Tim’s teasing and try to forget the way he called Jon a slut, a toy. Would have to look at Martin’s hands and pretend he couldn’t still feel them touching him so intimately. So cruelly.
“They’re really sensitive,” Martin murmured, laying a soft kiss between Jon’s breasts. “Do you think they could orgasm like that? Just from their nipples?”
Jon immediately let out a noise of distress. No, he wanted to say, don’t you dare, unfortunately, the gag did its duty. In the dark, he felt a line of drool drip down the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t think they like that idea. But hey, this is your time. If you wanna spend it torturing some poor stranger, be my guest.”
“Erm, well, I’ll hold off. I think I’m gonna go ahead and fuck them now?”
“You have my permission,” Tim teased.
“Oh, shut up,” Martin muttered.
Jon could feel the reverberation of Martin’s footsteps as he came closer. He listened to Martin grunt as he struggled with his trousers, likely too tipsy for buttons, then sigh with relief as a zipper pulled.
Tim whistled. “You’re about to make someone’s night, mate.”
“Please shut up,” Martin begged, obviously flustered.
Two fingers slid shallowly into Jon, spreading him. He gasped at the sudden intrusion, trying to grind down onto them. It didn’t work, and he whined.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Martin said, kissing his way up what little of Jon’s sternum was exposed to him. A thumb came to rest over his clit, eliciting another, longer whine as it did. Then Martin lined himself up.
The fingers moved to spread Jon’s lips, leaving a trail of wetness in their wake. It had the added effect of rolling back his hood, leaving his little nub defenseless as Martin’s thumb began to rub in circles.
Jon came. It was hair-trigger, like a switch being flipped, except the switch was his clit and Martin wasn’t letting up, firm and guiding as he wrung Jon’s orgasm from him. He could hear himself crying out but he couldn’t stop. His legs shook and his fists clenched as weeks worth of tension poured out of him.
The next thing he knew, Martin was sliding inside. The wide head of his cock slipped past Jon’s folds, nearly too big to take. The rest followed, thick and hot and fucking into him with a single, slow thrust. Jon could do nothing to aid the process. Held open and limp as he was, the only option was to take it, like he was nothing more than a thing to be used. Like that was his purpose, his point of being. A hole to be filled. And oh, was he filled. Martin was big, bigger than the last cock Jon had taken. He couldn’t see, of course, didn’t know by how much, though it felt like a pillar. Heavy as stone and splitting his cunt open.
Jon assumed Martin would be gentle. From the treatment of his tits, he should have known better. Martin’s hips drew back slowly, like he was reluctant to leave Jon’s warmth. Then they slammed back without mercy, driving every inch back in, forcing Jon to relive the stretch and accommodate it once more.
He’d taken his fingers away from Jon’s clit at some point. Thank god. Jon wasn’t sure he could’ve survived so much of that so soon. Martin had his hands on the box’s front, bracing himself, making his thrusts all the more brutal. Every one sent spasms of pleasure through Jon, pressing down on all the right places- it’d be impossible not to, with Martin’s size.
Jon tried to keep quiet, although it was a losing battle. He sounded wanton. Wrecked. Hopefully too wrecked to recognize. He wondered what Martin would do, if he found out who he was fucking right then. Stop? Go harder? Jon was already the cause of Martin’s frustration, if his and Tim’s conversation was anything to go by. Maybe he’d want to punish him. Put his mouth back on Jon’s nipples and bite, spank his inner thighs to bruising, pinch his clit until he sobbed. Jon moaned at the thought, adding to the litany of groans and squeals working their way from his throat without permission.
“Fuck,” Martin gasped. His voice was high, rougher than Jon had ever heard it. He wished he could have seen what Martin looked like in that moment, what expression he had on his face. But Jon was in the dark- literally- and all Martin knew was that he was fucking a stranger kinky enough to open his legs for any and all comers. It shouldn’t have aroused Jon so much to think about.
“How’s it feel?” Tim asked.
“S-soft,” Martin answered, breath ragged, “good, really good.” Then, speaking directly to Jon for the one of the first times since the encounter began: “I’m- I think I’m going to finish soon, so, I hope you’re- ah! Good with that. Fuck.”
Jon clenched down, moaning, and Martin came. He didn’t shout, just groaned deeply, forehead clearly resting against the wood of the box. Jon felt a trickle of warmth inside him, then, horribly, stillness.
When Martin pulled out, he nearly bawled through his gag. He needed it, needed to come again, needed it more than anything else in the world. Luckily for him, Martin seemed to notice he wasn’t done.
“Oh- oh!” he panted. “Poor thing, one second. Tim, wasn’t… wasn’t there a-“
“What? Oh, yeah, in the- there you go.”
There was the noise of rummaging, then, to Jon’s surprise, something was pressing between his folds once more, aided by the come dripping out and down his thighs. It wasn’t a cock. Not a real one, at least. The thing was firm and rubbery, with a curved end that settled tantalizingly inside him. Eager for release, Jon tried frantically to shift the toy into a stronger position. Like every attempt before, it fell flat. That was, until someone reached forward and pressed something on the toy’s end, turning it on and sending a barrage of vibrations through Jon’s cunt. The setting was low. It didn’t matter. He came immediately, loud and mortifying. It was just as gratifying as his first, if not more so. When Jon’s orgasm passed, the vibrator was still lodged inside of him. He whimpered at the overstimulation, working to push it out. No use. The thing didn’t budge an inch- had it been secured somehow?
“Aw, that’s just plain mean.” Tim said over the sound of trousers being pulled up and belts buckled. Jon yelped as someone, presumably Tim, gave his clit a teasing flick.
“What’s mean about helping them get off?” Martin asked innocently. It was the same tone he used to ask about someone’s day, or if anyone needed any help with filing. Jon had a nagging feeling those innocuous interactions would hold a different weight from now on.
“Evil,” Tim tsked. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I need another round.”
“Alright… could we maybe pop in somewhere else to get it, if you don’t mind? The music here is really bad.”
And then they were gone, their footsteps retreating, their conversation fading out beneath the rest of the pub’s clamor. The door swung behind them. Before it even had time to shut, someone else caught it and barreled through, with what sounded like three or so others at their heels.
Jon didn’t know how much time he had left- an hour? Two? But he did know he was going to enjoy it.
Jon winced as he made his way down the stairs to the Archives, feeling along the rail for support. That morning, he’d woken up the sorest he’d been in quite some time. Last night hadn’t ended with the men who came in after Tim and Martin. Or even the ones after them. His cunt hurt, from the stinging of his folds and clit- which was certainly not helped by everything rubbing together as he walked- to his very core, where a low sort of pain has settled so deeply he wasn’t sure it’d ever leave.
Despite (or perhaps because of) it all, Jon felt… good. Refreshed. He’d gotten a good night’s sleep, the first in what must have been weeks. Jon probably would’ve walked with a spring in his step, if not for the limp. He was, however, eager to sit down.
“Morning!” Martin chirped as he noticed Jon coming down the hall. He looked the same as ever. Tall, soft, and unassumingly sweet, a tentative, greeting smile on his face. Not at all like someone who’d spent yesterday evening fucking a stranger out of his mind.
Jon had fretted about how to handle the situation. A bit. It was hard to fret about anything, in that state, honestly, but he managed. That was, until he reminded himself that there was no situation. Martin didn’t know. Neither had seen the other’s face. What did it matter if Jon could remember the strain of taking Martin’s cock, of feeling his hands on his breasts? Besides getting him somewhat wet, it didn’t. For all intents and purposes, they hadn’t interacted at all last night. Jon wasn’t about to tell Martin differently.
Regardless of the strange, new heat that flooded him upon hearing the man’s voice.
“Good morning, Martin,” Jon replied, and if he was more upbeat than usual, who was to say? He inclined his head, meeting Martin’s gaze. It only brought a small flush to his face.
Martin followed cautiously as Jon made his way towards the door to his office, taking out his key.
“Wow, er- you seem like you’re in a good mood?”
Jon hummed. “I suppose so. I had a restful night. Ah, and you?”
“That’s wonderful! I was up kind of late, but I’m good, just a tad tired. Er, in fact, I was about to make a pot of tea, if you’d like some?” he said hopefully.
“Yes, I’d quite like that.” Jon answered, glancing back Martin’s way long enough to give him a small smile.
Martin blinked, looking dumbstruck, then his cheeks went pink. “Er, yeah! No problem! I’ll just get on that then!”
He turned around quickly, heading for the kitchen. Jon watched him go, then unlocked his door and set about putting his things down. It was a relief to finally sit. He was particularly grateful for the soft leather of his desk chair.
A few minutes later and he was immersed in work. It was a good feeling- purposeful, like he was energized and ready to face the day. Not at all like the slog he’d been lost in the night before.
Martin returned soon, a steaming mug in hand. “Black with honey,” he announced, slipping into the office and holding the cup out for Jon to take.
“Thank you, Marti-” Jon broke off with a gasp as he tried to raise from his desk, only for a bolt of pain to leave his knees weak. Martin was at his side in an instant, catching him with his free arm.
“Jon?” he asked, alarmed. “Are you alright? Should I call someone?”
“No, no!” Jon said quickly, easing himself back into his chair with a whine of pain. “I, ah- it’s only a cramp. From sleep. Leave the cup, would you, I’ll be fine.”
Jon staunchly avoided eye contact, staring down at his papers and hoping his blush wouldn’t resurface.
Martin stared at him for a moment, blinking, as if he hadn’t heard Jon speak at all. His brow furrowed slightly. Then, appearing to process the words- “What? Oh. Erm, yeah. Okay! I’ll just… go, then.”
Jon nodded stiffly. “Yes. Thank you for the tea,” he said, still looking away.
“N...no problem!” Martin said, flustered, before shuffling out of Jon’s office with record speed. He didn’t even bother to close the door.