The Office Gloryhole

Chapter Fifteen: Checkpoint

At 6:15, the fifth floor of Grayson & Sons was a mausoleum, a hollow shell of flickering fluorescents and shadowed cubicles, the air thick with the hum of sleeping machines and the faint ting of stale coffee. Mark barrelled through it, shoes slapping the carpet, breath shallow and ragged, his cock twitching half-hard in his trousers with a desperate, gnawing need that drove him toward the bathroom like a junkie chasing a fix. The hole loomed in his mind, that dark, filthy promise of oblivion, of wet lips and greedy suction, a beacon cutting through the grey dawn, pulling his steps faster until he was charging forward. His tie flapped loose, shirt creased and clinging to his sweaty chest, the hold-all thumping against him with every stride. He could feel it already: the cool wood of the bathroom wall, his leaking tip shoving through the hole, the first hot flick of tongue that’d utterly unravel him. The empty office blurred past, a silent witness to his frenzy, the bathroom door just yards away now: salvation so close he could almost taste it, balls aching and heavy with unspent lust for that interrupted dream.

“Mark!” Tim’s voice cracked through the stillness, eager and bright, slicing Mark’s momentum like a blade as he rounded the corner, quiff bouncing, grin splitting his face wide. He wore sweats and a hoodie, uncharacteristically casual, fingers toying with the pullcord around his neck. The sincerity stung like a slap, stalling his rush, his jaw clenching as he glanced at the bathroom door, blowjob slipping away like sand through his fingers. “Early bird, eh? Let’s get a move on!” Tim clapped his shoulder, oblivious, launching into chatter. “I’ve got the itinerary locked; by the time we get through, we’ll have a little bit of time before we board. The, uh, flight is at nine; Greg’s already waiting in the car. This is going to be a blast, right?” His voice cracked partway through; excitement, Mark supposed, watching him tug the pullcord around his finger. “Yeah, sounds ace,” he forced out in response, charm faltering, resignation sinking in as Tim steered him away, bags in tow.

Outside, the company car idled, a tidy cocoon of faux leather and petrol fumes. Tim added Mark’s hold-all to the pile of bags on the passenger seat while Greg sprawled in the back, all bulk and bravado, legs splayed, leaving Mark to slide in beside him. “Buckle up,” Tim chuckled, engine purring as they pulled out, the airport an hour away. Greg shifted, stretched an arm behind Mark’s headrest, scrolling through the phone in his other hand absently. Mark pulled the seatbelt across his chest, turning his head to look for its socket, finding himself face deep in Greg’s armpit when the scent hit: raw, musky; no deodorant. Just clean sweat and testosterone. A fog of pheromones rolled off Greg like summer heat off tarmac, slamming into Mark, primal and heavy. His eyes glazed over, mouth dropping; his cock, already aching from the morning’s interruptions, throbbed harder, pinned tight in his trousers, pulsing with need. Greg launched into a rant, voice a gruff bark: “This bird I’ve been shagging can’t take a fucking hint! She texts me nonstop, clingy as fuck. I tell her, ‘Mate, it’s a shag, not a bloody proposal,’ but she’s all over me like flies on shit.” He laughed, sharp and loud, dropping his arm from Mark’s headrest to around his shoulders, jostling him as he laughed. “Women, eh? Fucking needy bastards!”

Mark nodded absently, drowning in the scent: sweat-soaked, alpha, a wall of unapologetic manliness that thickened the air. His body reacted, unbidden, as his breath shallowed, groin tight, his hand dropping to cover his raging bulge as Greg’s bulk pressed closer, oblivious. Tim piped up from the front, “Sounds exhausting, Greg, but at least they can’t get you when we’re up—" his voice hitched as he cleared his throat before continuing, “while we’re flying.” Mark absently glimpsed Tim’s reflection in the rear-view mirror as it coiled and uncoiled the hood cord compulsively. The details of the conversation had washed over him, Mark was lost in the musk, the kiss replaying in his head, all soft lips and salty need, blurring with the dream’s chaos: Dave’s girth, Tim’s ass, Greg’s dominance. His hands flexed awkwardly in his lap, applying just enough pressure to conceal without drawing further attention, straining with effort to keep it together. Greg clapped his shoulder, arm still around him, and pumped more raw masculinity into the confined space, “You’re quiet, Hammond, keep your head in the game,” and Mark forced a grin, retreating within himself, his civility a thin veneer over the horny, haunted mess.

The car ride dragged, Tim’s steady hands on the wheel a metronome to Greg’s relentless growl, his voice filling the sedan like smoke, thick and inescapable. “Fucked that new temp last week,” he bragged, smirking, legs spreading further and inadvertently pinning Mark against the door. “Bent her over my desk after hours. Tight little thing, squealed like a pig. Been through all the temps, man, it’s tradition.” His laugh rumbled, guttural and crude, and Mark’s mind flicked through all of the temps he’d seen come and go over the years: Natalie, Jessica, Madeleine, even Tim before he’s swung the executive assistant gig. Greg didn’t pause, pushing on: “Line ‘em up, knock ‘em down, and write them a glowing reference. That’s how you keep an office happy, Hammond!” Mark nodded, a reflex, unease knotting under his skin as his dick throbbed, hot-boxed in the pheromone-filled car.

At the airport, they spilled out, bags slung over their shoulders as they navigated across the terminal heaving with early travellers. Tim led the charge, weaving expertly, Greg trailing, folk jumping apart to avoid getting in his way, and Mark followed, the ache in his going a dull pulse behind the hold-all he held tight. The security line snaked slow, and Greg, bored, fished out his phone, elbow jabbing Mark’s side. “Check this,” he grunted, showing the screen under Mark’s nose. A gallery of conquests flickered past: blurry tits bouncing, thighs spread wide, then a shot that stopped him dead. Greg’s dick, hulking and thick, long enough to dwarf any porn-star Mark had seen, crowned with a fat, glistening head enrobed in a generous snout of foreskin, all nestled between pendulous balls draped in downy blonde hair. Below it, pert, plump ass checks framed the shot: smooth, tight, not quite the bubble-butt he’d seen quivering through the hole, but close enough that his mind leapt. He pictured them there, clenching around his cock, cum-slick and trembling, a memory seared into him from that fifth-floor bathroom. They weren’t the same cheeks, not as round or as full, but the thought alone lit him up, his breath hitching, slacks tightening as his dick stirred, oblivious to the line inching forward.

“Sir, step forward,” the customs office snapped, a jock type: buzzcut, biceps bulging under his uniform, smirking like a schoolyard bully sensing weakness. Mark shuffled up, dazed, Greg’s photo burning behind his eyelids, those cheeks, that godly cock, and his own prick thickened fast, pushing against his boxers, straining the fabric. The pat-down started, and the agent’s hands were rough, sliding down his arms, palming his chest before diving lower. He felt the hands cupping his junk, firm and deliberate, fingers pressing into the bulge with a slow, teasing grip. Mark’s moan slipped out, a low, ragged sound he couldn’t choke back, his cock fattening fully now, the head nudging his waistband, pre-cum oozing hot and steady, soaking through his boxers in a sticky, shameful patch. The agent’s grin widened, toying with him. Palms slid up his thighs, brushed the swell again, then again. A thorough frisk that grazed his balls, sending jolts through his spine. Sweat beaded on Mark’s neck, dripping down his back, his face flushing red as his hips twitched, desperate for more, friction unbearable. He was seconds from cumming right there, slacks tented, lust boiling over in a public queue, every nerve screaming for release.

He stumbled through, legs shaking, joining Tim on the other side by the gate. Tim stood there, perky grin intact, but his eyes glinted with something sharp and unreadable, watching Mark adjust his bag over his groin, damp fabric clinging to his though. Mark avoided his gaze, heart hammering, and glanced back. Greg was mid-pat-down, towering over his agent, when the body scanner screen flared beside him: a stark, glowing impression of Greg’s naked form, broad shoulders, muscled thighs, and that massive dick hanging heavy, a shape so unmistakeable it punched the air from Mark’s lungs. His stomach lurched, a shockwave ripping through him; if Tim had watched his pat-down, that screen would’ve lit up too: his own aching hard-on, thick and pulsing, bared for all to see, pre-cum-slick, obscene and desperate for release. He gawped at Tim, awkward and wide-eyed, mouth dry as the realisation sank in. Tim might have clocked it, might’ve seen everything! Greg sauntered over, cleared, smirking like nothing fazed him, and Tim patted Mark’s back, light but loaded, fingers lingering a beat too long to Mark’s overactive mind. “Rough start, Stroker?” he joked, smooth as silk, that smile a fucking riddle, oblivious to Mark’s skin burning under his gentle touch. Mark nodded, mute, his mind a churning mess: those imagined cheeks, Greg’s unabashed dick, the agent’s hands, and Tim’s damned smile, all crashing together as his dick continued to leak, his shame and need an inextricable, throbbing knot.

Chapter Sixteen: Come Fly With Me

The plane hummed, a tin can slicing through the sky at 30,000 feet, and Mark sat wedged in the middle seat, a pressure cooker of frayed nerves and unrelenting, clawing horniness. Greg sprawled to his left, a mountain of calm indifference: hands, cupped on top of his head, eye-mask and noise-cancelling earphones drowning out the world, his bulk radiating heat and that raw, musky scent, a pheromone haze that fogged Mark’s skull, soaking into his skin. Each breath dragged it deeper, sweat and testosterone, a thick and primal whiff that made his cock twitch treacherously. It thickened in his slacks, despite his efforts to the contrary, pre-cum seeping slow and hot into his boxers, the damp fabric sticking to his slick tip.

Tim jittered to his right, upright and twitchy, quiff wilting as he gripped the armrests white-knuckled, eyes darting to the window like a trapped animal. “I hate flying,” he muttered, voice tight and high, a bundle of anxious energy vibrating beside Mark. “Always think the wings’ll snap off or some other ‘Final Destination’ bullshit.” Mark nodded, half-listening, recalling the way airport security had caressed him with his rough hands. The image of Greg in the scanner, the shape of his big dick hanging halfway to his knee shamelessly, kept flashing before his eyes, cheeks prickling pink as he recalled Tim’s knowing smile.

Turbulence slammed in, the plane lurching skyward, engines roaring, and Tim unravelled like a spring snapping loose. “Oh God, oh fuck,” he gasped, a panicked whine tearing free. His hand shot out, aiming for the armrest between them but missing entirely, fingers clamping hard around Mark’s half-erection through his slacks. The grip was firm, unwitting, and Mark jolted, white-hot pleasure spiking through him as his cock surged to full mast, thick and leaking, a slick and shameful patch blooming beneath Tim’s palm. Tim didn’t notice. He was lost in his panic attack, hyperventilating, wild-eyed. “We’re going to crash, I fucking know it, we’re fucked!”

His fingers flexed, absently kneading Mark’s bulge like a stress-toy before letting go to run his hand anxiously through his hair, oblivious to the wet sheen he’d smeared there. Mark’s breath hitched, ragged and shallow, his balls tightening, hips twitching in response to the lost contact. But he shoved it down, reached out with a tentative but steady hand and gently rested it over Tim’s wrist. “Hey, hey,” he said, low and firm, more instinct than comfort. “We’re fine. Just turbulence, it’s normal. It’s like, uh, bumps in the road.”

Tim’s gaze darted to him, eyes wide, knuckles white against the tray table. Mark kept his voice calm, thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of his shaking hand. “Look at me. You’re alright. Deep breaths, yeah? In through your nose…” Tim tried, faltered, tried again, as Mark watched the rise and fall of his chest, the tremble in his shoulders. “See?” he murmured. “Still here. Still flying.” But the ache between Mark’s legs didn’t ease. His cock throbbed in time with the engines, every jolt of the plane echoing the tension in his body. He swallowed hard, jaw tight, forcing himself to stay still, to be the calm one.

An hour crawled by, the cabin lights dimming, and Tim’s sleeping pill finally kicked in; his head lolled sideways, body slumping against Mark like a ragdoll. Whereas Greg stayed zoned out, a snoring wall of musk and muscle, Tim nuzzled closer, a soft sigh escaping as his arm snaked across Mark’s waist, their legs tangling as he curled into him. Tim’s thigh pressed hot and insistent into his, the fabric of his sweats rubbing Mark’s slacks. Mark’s hard-on raged, unbearable now, pinned tight and aching, the damp patch in his boxers spreading as the tip leaked steadily, a slow drip of torment.

Then it got worse as Tim shifted in his sleep, first nose then lips brushing Mark’s neck, soft and pliant; a faint moan hummed against his skin, hot breath fanning the pulse there. Something hard nudged Mark’s hip: Tim’s boner, stiff and rebelling against the tranquiliser, ground into him through their clothes, a rigid heat that sent Mark’s mind reeling. The kiss from the hole flashed back, soft lips, salty need, blurring with the memory of Greg’s photos, Dave’s exhibitionism, and now this: Tim’s perfect, firm ass under his arm, his hand sliding lower instinctively to cup those cheeks, gripping tight.

He froze, arousal spiking as he felt Tim licking his lip, the tip grazing Mark’s neck. He told himself it was just support, not want, that Tim was a mate, that he needed to fucking stop! But his cock didn’t care. It throbbed harder, pre-cum soaking through to his slacks as Tim murmured in his sleep, hips twitching.

The plane droned on, a claustrophobic cocoon trapping him. Greg’s pits hit harder, raw, musky, an impermeable fog of pheromones that drowned his senses, making every thought sluggish, every pulse of his dick heavier. His eyes snagged on the air hostess up the aisle, blonde and curvy, her uniform hugging hips he’d kill to bruise, tits straining the buttons of her blazer. He pictured her right there, straddling him in the seat, skirt hiked to her waist, sinking slow and wet on his aching cock and how her cunt would grip him tight as she rode him. First, he decided, teasing; then, brutal, pert ass bouncing, cheeks clapping, cum-slick from his leaking dick, just like the hole. His dick thickened further, veins bulging, pinned so tight in his slacks he could feel the zipper bite, the wet spot growing, boxers sodden as he leaked like a faucet. Tim’s sleeping weight pinned him, wedged against Greg’s dissociated bulk, and his mind spun, no escape from the torment fate kept piling on.

A sharp ‘ping’ cut through as Greg’s meaty finger jabbed the call button, eye-mask off one eye, a grunt grumbling out. “Whiskey, neat,” he barked, voice gravelly, as a male steward appeared: lean, sharp-featured, corporate polish gleaming in his crisp uniform, a glint in his eye that flickered with something unsettling. “Sure thing, sir,” he said, smoothed and clipped, before vanishing momentarily, returning with a double. As Greg pulled the mask back down, the steward surveyed Tim, still nuzzled into Mark, arm draped across his waist. “Your boyfriend’s out cold, huh?” he teased, smirking. Mark flinched, heat flooding his face, clinging to denial. “He’s not my— I’m, uh, straight,” he stammered, voice cracking as his stumbled over the words, holding desperately to the shreds of his heterosexual reputation, forcing his mind to think of the air hostess’ tits, Sarah’s pussy, anything but this situation. The steward raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, his lips curling predatorially. “Right. Let’s check that seatbelt, then.” His hands moved with polished ease, rehearsed and clinical, until they didn’t—.

He leaned in, too close, his breath a warm, insidious gut against Mark’s ear; the crisp edge of his corporate polish melting into something darker, something raw. His hand slid down Mark’s chest, fingers splaying wide, a pretence of safety that veered off-script with glacial intent, brushing the fabric of shirt, grazing a nipple through the cotton until it stiffened, a traitor to his fraying control. Mark’s pulse hammered, pinned helpless between Tim’s drugged, slumping weight and Greg’s snoring mass, the engines’ hum a cruel backdrop to his unravelling. The steward’s fingers dipped lower, tracing the crease of his lap, then paused, hovering over the bulge in his slacks as the thick outline of his raging dick pulsed against the zipper. A firm, deliberate squeeze clamped down, and Mark gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound that caught in his throat, his cock straining under the pressure.

“Relax, straight boy,” the steward murmured, voice dipping low and conspiratorial, a filthy whisper that slithered into Mark’s ear and settled, uneasy, like an inside joke he wasn’t privy to. Each stroke set his teeth on edge, a tease that made his hips fight against Tim’s weight, a reflex he couldn’t stifle. The steward’s thumb circled the head, slow and taunting, rubbing through the cloth and tracing the fat, leaking tip as it twitched, milking more pre-cum in a steady, shameful drip. The scent of his arousal mingled with Greg’s musk, rolling off the broad man in waves, flooding Mark’s lungs. Eyes closing, he tilted his head closer, drawn like a moth to heat, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in deep, greedy pulls of the sweat-slick musk steaming from Greg’s armpit. The coarse hair glistened inches from his face, damp with fresh sweat, sweet and intoxicating. He didn’t register the movement, just the need, animalistic and all-encompassing, to fill his lungs with it again.

“Go on,” the steward hissed, “bury your nose in your mate’s pit like it’s your favourite fucking flavour.” Mark’s eyelids flickered open, eyes glassy, pupils blown, staring at the hairy hollow just inches away as he huffed down pheromones that thickened the air and his cock in equal measure. His balls ached, a deep and primal throb, as the steward’s grip tightened, a slow pump starting. Up. Down. Up. Down. The rhythm rocked his pelvis, twisting the fabric rough over his hypersensitive head.

The steward’s smirk widened, eyes glinting with control, and then—fuck! He reached for Tim’s limp hand, dangling slack across Mark’s waist. He guided it with precision, lifting those slender fingers, wrapping them around Mark’s bulge, closing them tight over the pulsing heat. Mark’s breath caught, panic and need colliding, his dick a steel rod under Tim’s unwitting grip, a glistening sheen coating his palm as the steward used his hand like a puppet, jerking Mark by proxy with a steady relentless pump and dragging a low moan from his chest. “Look at you, straight boy,” the steward growled, voice turning dominating, a filthy edge cutting through, “so fucking desperate, huh? Hard as a rock with your boyfriend right here, blissed out of your brains on man-sweat. Gonna spunk all over his hand, aren’t you, you filthy fuck?” The strokes quickened, the steward’s knuckles brushing Mark’s balls through the cloth, a glancing tease that sent jolts up his spine, his sack tightening, cum churning hot and thick at the base of his shaft.

Mark’s mind blanked, a haze of shame and lust swallowing him whole: Greg’s pit at his nose, Tim’s lips at his neck, the steward’s filthy diatribe in his ear. “Bet you’d love to blow it right now,” the steward taunted, leaning closer, his lips grazing Mark’s earlobe, “drench his fingers, let him wake up sticky and confused. I can feel you begging for it, straight boy.” His grip on Tim’s hand tightened, pumping faster, the friction searing through the fabric. His hips rutted wantonly, bucking into Tim’s hand, a desperate, shameless thrust that chased the edge. Muscles clenched, his breath ragged and sweat beaded on Mark’s brow as the plane’s vibrations synced with the rhythm to amplify every stroke. He was so close, so fucking close! His balls drew up tight, the ache surging, cum rising hot and thick as that scalding pressure built at his root, ready to erupt in ropes that threatened to drown everything.

The steward’s grip on Tim’s hand faltered, his fingers slipping as he leaned back to watch, a dark glint in his eye, letting Tim’s limp, sleeping fist take over. The hand was still curled tight around Mark’s bulge, flexing unconsciously with every twitch of his dreams. Mark’s control snapped, hips pumping, a guttural growl tearing free as the friction hit critical; Tim’s palm, slick with pre-cum, slid rough and perfect over the swollen head through the sodden slacks, the fabric chafing his slit just right. His cock pulsed, veins bulging, foreskin peeling back as he erupted, a violent, earthshattering orgasm blasting through him.

Thick, gushing ropes of spunk fired hard, foaming past the zipper’s teeth to splatter Tim’s hand in sticky, white foam. The first jet hit like a punch, drenching Tim’s fingers, dripping down his wrist, the second and third spurts arcing higher, splashing the armrest, smearing the tray table, a filthy arc of cum that painted the seatback in front of him, sticky with salt and shame. His balls clenched, pumping out more: five, six thick spurts, each one a shuddering jolt that rocked his frame, hips still jerking wildly, grinding into Tim’s hand as the mess pooled, seeping into the cracks of the seat: a hot, gluey puddle under his thighs.

Greg’s musk choked the air, amplifying it, his pit-sweat scent mixing with the raw reek of Mark’s load, a primal stench that fogged his head as he moaned low, broken, a resounding surrender and release. His dick twitched through the aftershocks, still leaking, smearing Tim’s knuckles with the dregs. Tim slept on, oblivious, his hand a cum-slick vice, lips parted against Mark’s neck, drooling faintly as the steward’s whispers faded into a smug, distant hum, leaving Mark trembling, spent, and soaked.

Then, before Mark could muster the strength to stop him, the steward’s hand darted to Tim’s shoulder. “Hey, sir, wake up,” he coaxed, voice snapping back to bright, corporate cheer as he stepped back, his smirk dripping with knowing, assessing the glistening mess splattered across Tim’s hand, the armrest and the seat with mischief in his eyes.

Chapter Seventeen: Flight Risk

Tim stirred, blinking groggy eyes, his head lolling at Mark’s neck as the sleeping pill’s haze clung thick, dulling his senses. His hand, slick with Mark’s spunk dripping down his fingers, flexed once, then slid off Mark’s lap, smearing a wet trail onto his own sweats before he wiped it absently on the fabric, mumbling, “What—? Fuck, are we crashing?” His voice was slurred, thick with sleep, his boner still pressing into Mark’s side as he shifted, oblivious to the sticky chaos coating his skin.

Mark’s heart slammed, panic spiking through the post-cum haze as he scrambled to cover his sodden, wrecked slacks, the dark patch still spreading, but the dim cabin lights masked the worst of it. He yanked his hold-all onto his lap, fast and clumsy, the bag thumping over the mess, hiding the glistening puddle pooling under his thighs and the splattered armrest. The reek hit: salty, musky, a raw tang of spunk laced with the tang of Greg’s pits, but the recycled air and the faint whiff of jet fuel dulled it, blending it into the plane’s ambient funk. Tim’s nose twitched, a sleepy hum slipping out as he inhaled deeper, his half-lidded eyes fluttering, unfocused, the pill keeping him drowsy. “Mmm, smells like lunch— already?” he mumbled, voice thick and slurred, a faint smile tugging his lips as he shifted, still groggy, clearly savouring the scent in his haze.

Mark forced a laugh, hoarse and tight, “Mate, Greg’s pits are fucking lethal, right?”, nodding at Greg, who snorted, oblivious, his armpits gaping wider, pumping more musk into the fray, the perfect scapegoat obfuscating the truth. The steward lingered, tray in hand with Greg’s empty whiskey glass, his smirk twitching. “Bit of turbulence, eh? Spilled something, looks like.” He winked at Mark, a conspiratorial glint, then tossed a stack of napkins onto the armrest, right over the cum-smeared tray table before sauntering off, leaving Mark to mop up. Mark grabbed them, dabbing frantically at Tim’s hand as he grumbled "'M'all sticky—,” swiping his fingers on his hoodie, mistaking the spunk for spilled drink in his haze. Mark watched, horrified, as Tim curled his hood pullcord around his spunky fingers reflexively, then slipped the end of the cord into his mouth, chewing absently, a faint smack of lips. His head lolled back, eyes drifting shut again, the pill pulling him under; “Wake me when we’re landing,” he muttered, none the wiser.

Mark sat there, pulse racing, the soiled napkins balled in his fist, cum drying tacky on his thighs beneath the hold-all as he surreptitiously cleaned himself as best he could, the plane droning on, a cocoon of shame and relief.

Hours later, the plane began its descent, the cabin lights flickered, casting jagged shadows across the rows, and Mark gently roused Tim, still pressed into him, his warmth a lingering weight against Mark’s side. “Oi, Tim, we’re coming in to land,” he said, voice low and rough, nudging his shoulder. Tim jolted awake, blinking fast, his quiff a lopsided mess as he untangled himself from Mark, his boner fading as he fumbled upright. “Shit, sorry,” he blurted, face flushing red and the patch of drool on Mark’s collar, hands flailing to smooth his hoodie compulsively, pullcord still damp from his earlier chewing. “I didn’t— fuck, the pill, I—" Mark cut in, throat tight, “No, it’s fine, I— uh, you wanted me to wake you, that’s all.” Their words tripped over each other, a clumsy stammer-fest. Tim muttered, “Oh, yeah, right,” and Mark nodding too quick, the awkwardness building until the captain’s voice crackled through: “Cabin crew, prepare to land.”

The plane dipped, engines whining a high-pitched scream, and Tim’s nerves flared again, eyes widening, breath burning shallow and sharp as he clawed his fingers into the sticky armrest. “Fuck— sorry, I just, fuck, I hate this bit…” he hissed, voice spiking, a tremble running through him as the fuselage shuddered, the descent steepening. Mark watched, his own nerves still raw from the raw bliss of his orgasm, and something snapped in him: an urge to steady, to anchor. He slid his hand onto Tim’s leg, just above the knee, a firm but platonic squeeze, the fabric of Tim’s sweats warm under his palm. “Hey, you’re doing well, mate. Just a few minutes more, okay?” His voice was low and steady, realising he meant it more than he’d expected. Tim looked at him, eyes wild, then softened as a flicker of trust cut through the panic. His hand shot out, lacing their fingers tight; it wasn’t a lifeline Mark had offered, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t pull back from it, though the contact startled him: warm, clammy, too fucking close.

Mark sat rigid, breath held, Tim’s grip a quiet anchor as the plane bucked and swayed, turbulence rattling the overhead bins. The connection hummed, undefinable, a thread of not-nothing knitting between them; a tether born of Mark’s rough-edged calm soothing Tim’s fraying edges. His mind blanked, reliving the memory of those slick fingers, that sticky palm, the white foam squelching between those delicate knuckles - anything but the hand in his now clutching him like a scared kid! The cabin tilted, the runaway lights streaking past the window, and Tim’s grip tightened, his thumb brushing Mark’s knuckles, an unconscious stroke that sent a shiver up Mark’s spine. “Thanks,” Tim muttered, barely audible, eyes locked forward and cheeks pink with shame, and Mark nodded, mute, wallowing hard as the wheels hit tarmac with a bone-jarring jolt. He yanked his hand free like he’d be scalded, the disconnect sudden, just as Greg stirred, peeling off his eye-mask with a grunt, “Fucking finally,” oblivious to the tangle beside him.

Tim snapped into gear the moment they landed. Quiff bouncing back as he shook off the haze, business mode clicking on like a switch. “Hotel’s twenty minutes away, should be a driver waiting. Dinner, early night, meeting at 9 a.m. sharp,” he rattled off, crisp and efficient, grabbing his bag from the overhead with a brisk tug, no trace of the wreck who’d clung to Mark moments earlier. Mark trailed behind, kicking the tissues he’d cleaned himself up with under the chair, his mind reeling; Tim’s flip was so fast it left him dizzy, the intensity of his grip and intimacy of his vulnerability erased like they’d never happened, a ghost in his palm. Greg lumbered ahead, bitching about the delay, “Bloody plane, should’ve driven”, his bulk cutting through the aisle. The cabin emptied slowly, passengers shuffling, and Mark lingered, adjusting his hold-all, the tacky residue in his boxers a shameful reminder of his guilty secret.

His eyes flicked to the galley as they passed; the air steward leaned out, sharp features glinting under the fluorescents, smirking wide. “Thank you for flying with us, today, gentlemen,” he said smoothly, eyes locking on Mark with a knowing leer that hit like a punch. “We trust the experience was… deeply satisfying.” Greg snorted, still grumbling about the tight fit of the chairs and kept moving, but Tim nodded absently, already scrolling his phone as he briskly followed toward the jet bridge. Mark faltered, the double entendre sinking in, his dick twitching again: traitorous, raw, a reflex to the steward’s taunt and the enduring memory of Tim’s grip, the unstoppable flood of cum, a tightening knot of confusing thoughts at the back of his mind. He forced his legs to move, catching up as they hit the terminal, the air shifting from recycled funk to the sharp bite of jet fuel and tarmac heat. Tim glanced back, a quick “You good?” His voice was casual, but his eyes lingered a beat too long, their expression too soft, a shadow of that mid-flight trust flickering there. “Yeah, fine,” Mark rasped, nodding too hard, the hold-all thumping against his hip as they headed for the car: Greg’s musk still in his nose, the memory of Tim’s fingers still sending sparks along his bell-end, and the steward’s dirty whispers still echoing around his head.

The ride to the hotel was a silent slog; Greg sat in front, grumbling about jet lag through a whiskey slur, Tim behind him, tapping emails with sharp, restless jabs at his phone. Mark stared out the window, his dick finally soft but his mind a churning mess of mile-high shame. The city lights streaked past, a blue of neon against the dusk, and Mark’s cum had dried into a crusty film that he could feel against his skin with every bump in the road. At check-in, Greg peeled off to his suite with a grunt, “Get changed, freshen up, and then come find me,” leaving Mark and Tim with a single key between them. The room was a gut-punch: one double bed, sagging in the middle like a tired sigh, and a fold-out couch that refused to unfold. Mark groaned, dropping his bag with a thud, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding. I didn’t sleep a wink on that flight!”

Tim smirked, arms crossed, his hoodie still rumpled from the flight. “I dunno, I thought you looked pretty comfy— in the middle, I mean.” His tone was light, teasing, but it stung; Mark’s gut twisted, flashing back to tangled legs, warm lips, that sticky hand he’d somehow dodged explaining. He bristled, tension simmering. “Not funny, man. I need real sleep, not fucking jibes.” Tim’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something crossing his face; annoyance, thought Mark, or guilt? But he relented, shrugged. “Fine, take the bed tonight. You looked like a bloody wreck up there when I woke up, I’ll manage.” Mark nodded, placated, a shaky truce settling between them as they unpacked in awkward quiet, the hum of the air-con filling the gaps. He stripped to his boxers, turning away from Tim, and peeled off the cum-stained pair, crusty, damp, a white-streaked map of his disgrace tugging at his hair. Movement caught his eye, and his vision darted to the hanging mirror reflecting the scene; behind him, bending over to step into a pair of jeans, Tim’s pert arse framed in tight, purple boxer briefs. Mark’s eyes darted away, then back again, unable to stop watching as his dick began to rise again. He swallowed, eyes tracing that taut curve that made a mockery of the photo Greg had showed him, outclassed Karen in her tight skirts, proving a worthy rival to the bubble butt Mark had soaked at the glory-hole.

As Tim straightened, so did Mark’s identity, looking away quickly and silently chiding himself for his easy distraction; he snuck a second look, catching Tim’s shrewd eyes raking over him through the glass. Mark flushed, caught, fresh boxers halfway up his thighs, grinning despite the jolt of heat prickling his neck as he registered the look. Curiosity, competition, something else too complex to define, but gone in a blink. Tim cleared his throat, leaning against the dresser with forced ease, but his anxiety betraying him as he brought the pullcord to his lips again. “I’m sorry, Mark, about the room. If I hadn’t asked Greg to come along, you wouldn’t have to share,” he said, voice a touch too quick, gaze now fixed on the soulless wall art like it held answers.

Mark tugged his boxers up fully, turning slightly, a frown crossing his brow as he registered Tim’s tone. “It’s alright, mate, we’ll manage,” he rasped, voice rough, the rest of his sentence quieter, more sincere; “I’m glad you’re here. Besides, I don’t think I could keep up with Greg on my own!” Tim’s gaze dropped from the lurid wall-print to meet Mark’s, a smile shared as rough camaraderie flickered, fragile but real, coiling in the quiet between them.

(My longest chapter yet, I hope you enjoy!)

Chapter Eighteen: Team-Bonding Exercises
The pair headed up to Greg’s suite, Tim dangling a spare key from the tip of a finger, voice cool and clipped. “Part of the gig, keeping him upright. Last trip, he passed out in the lobby, trying to chat up the receptionist.” The door creaked open to a trail of chaos, Greg’s jacket crumpled on the floor, tie slung over a chair, socks strewn like breadcrumbs to the bedroom. Mark followed, Tim a step ahead, and there he was: Greg, half-dressed, wrestling with a pair of loose gym shorts. One foot tangled in the leg, he hopped, grunting, his meaty arse flexing, broad, hairy, and sweat-slick, the dark, puckered hole winking briefly as he shifted, a primal slab of muscle inches from Mark’s face. His long hanging balls swayed, thick with blonde fuzz, brushing his thighs, and that thick, uncut dick swung heavy. The photo, as impressive as it was, had not done him justice; his foreskin hung long and heavy, enrobing what Mark knew to be a fat, glistening head, atop a truly monstrous shaft reaching halfway down to his knees, raw and real. Mark’s breath hitched as he swallowed down a lungful of Greg’s unrestrained pheromones, and his cock stirred in his fresh boxers, a slow and thick swelling he couldn’t squash. Greg was pure, brash masculinity, cocky and unshakable, a bull stomping through life, and Mark’s gut churned with reverence as he remembered how that pendulous nutsack resting on his face had felt in his feverish dreams.

Greg steadied himself, eventually, yanking the shorts up, loose fabric tenting over his bulge and Mark mutely sank into the corner seat, brain fogged with musk and shame, watching as he launched himself onto the bed, legs wide, meaty frame dipping into the mattress, empty scotch glass dangling from his fingers. Tim was already there, sliding a fresh pour into Greg’s hand without a word, a gruff “Cheers” met with a slight nod, a routine so practiced it didn’t need asking, reflexive as breathing. Mark watched, clocking it: Tim didn’t just assist; he anticipated, a shadow to Greg’s storm, every move fluid, unspoken instincts. Greg took a swig, eyes landing on Mark, suddenly firm and commanding, “You’re a quiet one, Hammond. Talk; what’s your deal? Plan— give me something.” His tone cut through, a boss digging in, and Mark shifted, the musk still coiling around him, lowering his guard.

“Just… keep the job, pay the bills,” Mark muttered, voice low, fingers flexing against the glass that Tim pressed into his hand. Greg snorted, leaning back, blind to Mark watching his balls peeking below the loose hem of his shorts. “No, I don’t buy it, Hammond. I’ve seen you in meetings, when your head’s in the game, you’ve got something there.” Tim took a seat on the edge of the bed, sipping from a bottle of water on the nightstand, eyes glinting, sharp and eager, flicking back and forth between Greg and Mark, nodding at Greg’s continued commentary, “So, what gives? What’s going on in that clever head of yours?” The room shrank, heat rising in Mark’s cheeks as his resolve cracked, just a bit, “It’s been difficult, uh, at home, recently. My wife—Sarah, we’re not clicking the way we used to. Between work, and kids, we just seem to…” He trailed off, bumping his fists together lamely to indicate the strife in his home life. “We barely talk, and when we do, we fight. We haven’t even had sex in—”

Greg grinned, seizing on the comment, brash and assured as Mark choked on his own tongue, embarrassed at oversharing. “Marriage blues, that’s all?” His voice boomed, laugh echoing around the suite. “Well, no problem! Work trips fix that, cut loose, no leash! Vegas last year, fuckin’ wild!” His hand groped his bulge absently, fingertips sliding across the dangling, exposed balls. “Snagged this dancer, legs for days, arse like a peach. Fucked her in the hotel pool, 3 a.m., water sloshing everywhere. Picture it: she’s belt over the edge, I’ve torn the strings of her bikini with my teeth, her cunt’s dripping, screaming as I rammed her raw. Tits bouncing, balls slapping wet, fuckin’ paradise.” Gone was the boss persona, here was the bro, brash and crude, “Tim sorted the night guard, what, fifty quid to shut him up?” Tim smirked, eyes rolling, “And another fifty for the cleaning costs.” Mark’s mouth quirked, the wildness jolting him; Greg’s tale was a pornographic reel, her slick heat, his thick cock pounding, and Mark’s dick stiffened, hooked on the swagger.

Greg went on, voice a deep roar, “Chicago! Two sisters, conference room after hours. One rode me, pussy squeezing my cock like it owed her money, tits smacking herself in the chin as she bounced on it, lad. The other one sat on my face, grinding her clit on me, soaking me till I choked on cum. Fucked ‘em, one after another, again and again till they begged me for a break, spunk all over the table.” Tim deadpanned, “No cleaning crew that time, just me. Still waiting on that thank-you…” Greg barked a laugh, slinging an arm around him, their sync was seamless: Greg the tornado, Tim the fixer, and Mark’s boxers straining, picturing it vivid, Greg undone and Tim attentive, a mix of Greg’s musk and Tim’s cool quips coiling within him.

Greg knocked his drink back, holding the glass in Tim’s direction as he refilled it without looking. “Tomorrow’s a piece of piss, meeting at 9, we’ll be done by noon. Then, we’re hitting the town, Hammond: steak dinners, drinks, pussy, the works, courtesy of Grayson & fucking Sons. What was the name of that titty bar, downtown, with the swing— Tim?” A tilt of the quiff, a moment of recollection, then, “Tassels & Chains, I think.” Greg chuckled, “That’s the one. Tits everywhere, legs up to here, just what you need, Hammond.” He gestured high, dirty and eager, and Mark nodded, dick throbbing at the promise of familiarity: booze, curves, release. Tim was already on it, phone out, tapping reservations, “Table for three, 8 p.m., VIP treatment—want me to see if Snowball is there, again?” but the tone of his voice made it clear the question was rhetorical, eyes flicking to Mark, a conspiratorial smile on his face.

“Gotta piss—keep talking, ‘can still hear you.” Greg lumbered to the bathroom, pulling his shorts off as he walked, leaving the door open as a loud splash reverberated around the room. “Last trip, banged a waitress over her serving trolley between courses—pants down, arse up—was her fault for offering me a cream pie, dirty bitch.” His stream wavered, oscillating, as he laughed raucously at his own joke. Meanwhile, Mark’s eyes slid to Tim, heat itching. “What about you? Your stories.”

Tim set the phone down, a slow, teasing grin curling his lips, sharper than Greg’s swagger, electric, aimed at Mark now and showing off. “Alright,” he said, leaning forward from the bed, voice low and filthy, eyes locked on Mark’s. “Berlin, couple years back. This one,” he tilted his head toward the bathroom door, “drags me out to a club, and I run into one of the band in the street round the back. Pants come down, no underwear, I shoved my face in; they’re already loosened up for me, someone else’s load already up there, and they’re pushing my head in closer, panting, ‘Eat me out, make me scream!’” Mark gawped, unused to the vulgarity flowing easily from Tim’s lips, fascinated by the sexual deviant seemingly hidden within him all this time. “Fucked ‘em against the wall, one hand pulling their head back, the other, they’re sucking on like it’s another cock, our hips slamming til they’re shaking, cum running down us both.” His words painted it, wet gasps, sticky heat, raw thrusts, and Mark swallowed, throat dry, cock hard, hooked on Tim’s eager tone, the way he leaned in, alive for him.

Greg leaned in the doorway, clad only in a bathrobe, drink in hand, grinning loose and boozy. “That was a good one, little pup. You should’ve seen his face right after, Hammond; dopey grin, fuck-drunk, trying to convince ‘em he’s good for round two, hilarious.” Tim didn’t flinch; he grinned wider. “Miami, last year, we went out for a drink with the client after the meeting. Suddenly, they’ve got my dick down their throat under the counter while I’m trying to order. Lips tight, tongue lashing my tip, throat squeezing… My legs buckled, spunk blasting across their face while I paid up.” Greg cut in, grinning wide, voice rising in mock-orgasmic glee, “Oi, can I get a recei—uuunnnhh, fuck, I’m cumming, oh fuck, I’m cumming!” Mid-shout, he lunged onto the bed, yanking Tim into a sloppy, affectionate headlock, big arm hooking around his neck, free hand ruffling his quiff into a sweaty mess. They roared with laughter, scotch sloshing as Tim tried to extract himself. “Little pup, you horny bastard, bustin’ your load all smug like that! My favourite fuckin’ mess, eh, pup?” Tim squirmed, smirking, cheeks flushed, shoving back playfully but leaning into the attention, eyes still flickering to Mark, eager for approval. Mark’s loins tightened, pre-cum seeping, the room pulsing with energy.

Tim kept going, buoyed, “London, New Year’s Eve. Hotel room balcony, bent over the balcony, arse begging for me. Spunked deep inside them as Big Ben counted the year out, cum bursting out of them, dripping onto the street below— talk about fucking fireworks. Start the year as you mean to go on, right?” Mark sat, enraptured, cock raging, picturing the curve of Tim’s ass as he pounded nameless, faceless women, their legs wrapping around him, pulling him in by his tie for sloppy kisses. Greg downed his drink and poured himself another before Tim had the chance, then sat back against the headboard. “Okay, Hammond. Your turn, mate, what’s your wildest?”

A dare, horny and probing, and Mark froze, the memory of the hole blazing, cum-slick ass cheeks, that desperate kiss. He laughed, leaning back, diving too deep. “In, uh, in an old job, not here, I, uh, found this glory-hole in the bathroom.” The room went quiet, and Mark watched as both gentlemen leaned in towards him, Greg’s smile spreading like a shark’s, “Fuck, an office fuck-hole… You hit that shit, Hammond?” Mark nodded, quickly, his eyes meeting Tim’s as he watched carefully, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Uh, yes, once or, uh, twice. Rough day at work, just needed release, you know? Stuck it in, one day, got a blowjob.” He sat back, story finished. The silence stretched before Greg interrupted, “What, that’s it? Shit, Hammond, gimme details!” A throw cushion soared through the air, catching Mark square in the chest, as Greg’s bicep flexed.

Mark took another sip, set the glass down, and cast his eyes skyward as he recalled his history with the hole. “I, uh, I’d been thinking about it for days, since I first saw the hole. I couldn’t think, kept fucking up at work, like my brain was already in that toilet cubicle, waiting for me to catch up. That first time I slipped it through, I half expected someone to slice it off, or for HR to jump out at me, but no, just… Lips. The fucking softest lips I’ve ever felt, just waiting, like they had been there all their lives waiting for the chance to suck my dick.” The words poured from him, a filthy confession. “Wet, fucking sloppy lips, slobbering over my knob, sucking me down, and that fucking tongue, shit.” His voice dropped off into a groan, thumbing his hard-on against the zipper in his jeans.

Tim shuffled forward; eyes wide, eager for more information. “The tongue?” He hung off every word as Mark continued, “Pulling my ‘skin back, teasing my head and dipping deep into my slit, slurping up every drop of my filthy pre-cum.” A dirty grin crossed Tim’s face, and Mark noticed the way his eyes dropped down to watch Mark’s hand in his lap, before snapping up again, the tips of his ears flushed pink with arousal. Greg’s earlier description of Tim lapped around Mark’s head, ‘dopey grin, fuck-drunk, trying to convince them’, and he could suddenly picture it vividly, ‘prim Tim’, quivering and undone, not dissimilar to the eager form in front of him. “Go on, Mark…”

Mark leaned in, closer to the bed, voice dropping lower. “Thought my dick was going to explode, the way it was leaking. Like, I’m not massive, but I’m not small either, but they swallowed my dick like a pro. Then they went for my balls, and shit, I love my balls being sucked, and they didn’t disappoint, believe me; they licked and sucked, rolling them in their mouth, hot and greedy, stroking every bloody inch while they teased my tip with their hand.” Even Greg was hooked, Mark noticed, glass resting on his chest as he absently ran his other hand along Tim’s spine. “And then the main event: that mouth back on my dick, hard and fast, spit dripping off my balls onto my fucking shoes. I fucked their throat— shit, can still feel it, every time I close my eyes— deep, tight, gagging on me, their hands squeezing my nuts just right. And the best thing?”

His voice thickened, cock throbbing, lost in it, composure hanging in the balance, and his gaze drifted from Greg’s smirk to the look of unbridled lust on Tim’s pinkened face, the way his eyes were staring at him, at his lips, as he spoke. “They didn’t make me pull out when I was ready to cum, they just wrapped their lips tight around me, fingers tickling my balls, even pressing up behind them, and mate, I saw fucking stars as I shot, load after load of cum down that hungry throat-cunt, squeezing me as they swallowed, making room for the next shot.” Tim was edged forward on all fours, crawling across the bed until he was at the edge, hands braced on the corner of the mattress, spine arched as he leaned in; his eyes were locked on Mark, laser-focused, like he couldn’t bear to miss a word. “Was— How did it feel? The suction, the spit.” Mark grinned, spurred on, “Tim, mate,” he swallowed the last of his drink, voice a growl now, “It felt like heaven; shit, that mouth worshipped me, treated me like a fucking god, needed me as much as I need it—”

Greg cut in, roaring with laughter, the interruption jolting both other men as if a spell had suddenly been broken, “Alright, horndogs— that’s enough for tonight, bedtime!” His grin was wide, affectionate, hand resting between Tim’s shoulders, keeping him pinned in his prone position as he stared at Mark through dark eyes, “Little pup’s all riled up now, aren’t you, kiddo?” He ruffled Tim’s hair playfully, oblivious to the way Mark’s dick twitched. “Don’t let this one bring any tarts up to the room, you hear me, Hammond? I need you both on top form tomorrow morning.” A gentle push, and Tim was on his feet, unable to meet Mark’s gaze, collecting empty glasses and setting them on the nightstand. Greg’s voice followed them as they headed to the door, “9 a.m., don’t forget— and get some fucking sleep!”, and as they stepped out into the silent corridor, both knew they’d have a hard time getting any rest, unsatisfied, unfinished.