Becoming My Boss's Beta Cock Worshipper

The office had gone quiet the way it only did after eight, the hallway lights dimmed, the copier silent, the city a dull gold smear beyond the blinds. Alastair stood with his palm against the frosted glass and turned the lock until it clicked. Twenty-eight years old, mid-level, two years under the same man, and his hand still shook.

Desmond watched from the leather chair like the room belonged to him, which, after hours, it did. Forty-two, company executive, broad through the chest and thicker through the arms than any suit was meant to hide. He had rolled his sleeves. The open collar showed the base of his throat. His thighs were spread, easy, as if the space between them had been waiting all week.

Two years of glances across conference tables. Months of doors left half shut and voices dropped low. Alastair had said, more than once, that he wasn’t gay. Desmond had never argued. He had only asked what Alastair was, then, if the sight of him made Alastair’s stomach drop and his cock thicken in his pants. The answers had come out in pieces, in this same office, after everyone else had gone: the heat when Desmond corrected him, the want that pooled low when that voice went quiet and private, the curiosity that had stopped feeling theoretical. Submissive. Kneeling. Serving. Alastair had used those words himself. Last Thursday Desmond had named the rest without softening it. Personal beta. Cock worshipper. After hours. His choice, or not at all.

Tonight Alastair had said yes.

“Locked,” he said. His voice came out thinner than he wanted.

“Good.” Desmond’s gaze traveled down and back up, unhurried. “You still want this.”

“I want it. I agreed.” Alastair swallowed. The carpet seemed farther away than it should have. “I’m not gay. I keep telling you that. I just—I want to be your beta. I want to kneel. I want to worship your cock. I said I would.”

Desmond nodded once, the same spare approval he gave in meetings when a report was finally right. “Then come here and do it.”

Alastair crossed the office. Cologne, warm cotton, the faint clean smell of Desmond’s skin. His hands hovered and found nothing useful to do. Desmond didn’t reach for him. He only waited, and the waiting left the choice exactly where Alastair had already put it.

He sank. The carpet gave under his knees. He settled between those spread thighs and looked up, heart hammering, mouth dry and somehow already wet. The locked door hummed in the quiet. Desmond’s hand rested on the arm of the chair and did not yet touch him.

“I’m here,” Alastair said.

“I see you.” Desmond’s mouth curved. “On your knees for your boss. My beta. Say it if you need to hear it out loud.”

“I’m your beta.” The words tasted strange and exact. “I’m going to worship your cock.”

Desmond’s belt came undone with a low metallic slide. He didn’t rush the button or the zipper. Alastair watched every inch of that slow undoing and felt his own cock strain against his pants, traitorously hard for a man who kept insisting he wasn’t gay. The zipper parted. Desmond lifted his hips just enough to push his pants and briefs down his thighs, and then it was there.

Thick. Heavy. Not fully hard yet and already more than Alastair had pictured in the dark of his apartment, fist around himself, face hot with the thought of this exact chair. The shaft lay along Desmond’s thigh, dense and veined, the head broad and flushed, the weight of it obvious even at rest. A clean, male smell rose off him, skin and heat and the faint salt of a long day. Alastair’s breath caught hard enough to hurt.

“Not gay,” Desmond said, mild, almost kind. “And you’re staring like you forgot how to blink.”

“I didn’t forget.” Alastair’s voice shook. “I just—God. It’s big.”

“It’s yours to worship. Whenever you’re ready. No one is making you.”

That was the worst and best of it. No one was making him. Alastair leaned in of his own accord, trembling so hard his shoulders jumped, and pressed his face to the shaft. The heat of it shocked him. Skin, living and heavy, against his cheek. He inhaled until his lungs ached, cologne undercut by something darker, musk and warmth that went straight to the ache between his legs. He wasn’t gay. He told himself that even as he turned his mouth and kissed the side of it, reverent, lips barely open, a soft sound escaping him that he would have died to hear in a meeting.

Desmond’s hand settled on the back of his head. Not pushing. Just there. “That’s it. Breathe me in. You’ve been thinking about this.”

“Months,” Alastair admitted against the heat of him. Another kiss, higher, closer to the head. The shaft twitched and thickened under his mouth. “I kept saying I wasn’t—I’m not—but I couldn’t stop picturing it. Kneeling. Your cock on my face. Serving you.”

“Then serve.” Desmond’s thumb stroked once behind his ear. “Open your mouth. Don’t be delicate about it. I didn’t ask for delicate.”

Alastair opened. The first lick was cautious, a flat stripe up the underside, and the taste undid the caution. Salt, skin, the faint bitterness of the slit when his tongue reached it. He made a broken noise and licked again, longer, sloppier, dragging his tongue from base to crown because stopping felt impossible. Desmond thickened fully under the attention, heavy enough now that Alastair had to use his hand to hold it steady, fingers not quite meeting around the girth. He kissed the head. He licked under the ridge. Spit gathered too fast and slicked his chin.

“Look at you,” Desmond murmured. “Trembling. Insisting. And licking me like you’ve been starving for it. Good beta.”

The praise hit harder than the taste. Alastair moaned into the next stroke, messy and wet, tongue flattening, lips smearing spit along the shaft. He wasn’t performing. He was unraveling, right there on the carpet, and Desmond’s low encouragement only pushed him further open.

He shifted closer on his knees until he was centered in front of the chair, the office spread useless around him, reports and glass and the city all irrelevant. Desmond’s cock stood thick and shining where Alastair’s mouth had been, a thread of spit connecting his lower lip to the head until it broke. Alastair stared at it, chest heaving, and felt the last of his resistance fold. Not gay. He could keep the words. They didn’t change what his body was doing, or what he wanted to do next.

“Please,” he said, and heard himself beg. “Let me—I need more of it. I need to worship all of it. I’m your beta. Use my mouth. I want to slobber on you. I want to be disgusting for you.”

Desmond’s hand tightened in his hair, still not cruel, just sure. “Then be disgusting. Open up and show me what my beta does when he’s in heat.”

Alastair opened wide and took the head into his mouth.

The stretch made his eyes water at once. Broad, hot, filling, the taste sharper on his tongue now that he was sealed around it. He sucked, clumsy and eager, and the sound was obscene in the quiet office—a wet, noisy slurp that would have shamed him an hour ago and only made him suck harder. Spit flooded his mouth. He didn’t swallow it back. He let it spill, drool sliding over his lip, down the shaft, onto his chin and Desmond’s balls in shining strings. A bitch in heat. The phrase had lived in his head since he’d agreed, filthy and exact, and now he was living it, moaning around the head while he bobbed, cheeks hollowing, spit bubbling at the corners of his mouth.

“Fuck,” Desmond said, low and pleased. “Listen to you. Sloppy little beta. That’s how you worship a cock. Don’t you dare get neat.”

Alastair pulled off with a wet pop just long enough to gasp, “I’m not gay, I’m not, but I can’t stop,” and then he was on it again, licking the shaft in long desperate strokes, painting it with spit, kissing the vein that ran underneath like it deserved devotion. He ducked lower and mouthed at Desmond’s balls, heavy and warm, lapping at them with the flat of his tongue, sucking one gently into his mouth while his fist stroked the slick shaft above. The smell was stronger there. He inhaled like he needed it to live and whimpered when Desmond’s thighs tensed around his shoulders.

“Good. Every inch. Don’t skip anything.” Desmond’s hand guided him back up, not forcing the pace so much as reminding him who he was kneeling for. “My balls, my shaft, the head. Worship it. You’re doing so well for a man who isn’t gay.”

The tease should have stung. It only made Alastair greedier. He licked from the base all the way up, noisy and wet, then sealed his lips around the head and sucked hard enough to hollow his cheeks, slurping, drooling, the office full of the sounds of his mouth. Spit ran down his wrist. His own cock throbbed untouched in his pants, a wet spot spreading at the front, and he didn’t care. He wanted Desmond’s pleasure more than his own. He wanted to be useful. He wanted to be the beta who couldn’t get enough.

“Deeper,” he begged, voice wrecked, lips shining. “Please. Hold my head. I want to take more. I want to choke on it a little. I want you to feel how eager I am.”

Desmond studied his face—flushed, wet, eyes blown and honest—and nodded. “Breathe through your nose. Tap my thigh if it’s too much. You asked for this, and I’m going to give it to you.”

Alastair opened and sank down. The head slid over his tongue, bumped the back of his throat, and his body clenched. He gagged, eyes streaming, and didn’t pull away. Desmond’s hand cradled the back of his skull, steady, letting him set the depth and then holding him there for a heartbeat when he managed it. Alastair moaned around the thickness, the vibration pulling a rough sound out of Desmond, and that sound made him try again. Down. A little farther. Throat fluttering, spit pouring, nose filling with the smell of him. He pulled back to suckle the head with filthy, wet slurps, then dove again, messy and devoted, taking as much of that heavy cock as his throat would allow.

He lost track of neatness entirely. Drool soaked his chin and dripped onto his shirt. He licked the shaft in frantic stripes between attempts, sucked the head until the slurps echoed, went back to the balls and lapped them clean of his own spit only to drool on them again. When Desmond held his head and rocked shallowly into his mouth, Alastair moaned like he was grateful and sucked harder, actively working his tongue, begging without words and then with them whenever he came up for air.

“More,” he gasped, strings of spit connecting his lips to the glistening head. “Please, more, I need it, I’m your beta, I’m your cock-hungry beta, I’m not gay but I’m slobbering on you like a bitch in heat and I don’t want to stop, don’t let me stop—”

“I won’t.” Desmond’s voice had gone rough. His hips rolled, feeding Alastair another thick inch, praise pouring over him in the same steady tone he used to assign work, except nothing about this was work. “Look at my eager little worshipper. On your knees in the middle of my office, dripping, sucking me like it’s the only thing you’re good for. You are good for it. Best decision you made all year, saying yes. Take it. Worship it. Show me how badly my beta needs his boss’s cock.”

Alastair showed him. He deep-throated until his throat clicked and his eyes rolled, pulled off coughing and shining, and went right back down because the emptiness felt worse. He slobbered. He slurped. He licked every inch he could reach, shaft and head and balls, mouth open and hungry, moaning so loudly he was glad the floor was empty. Desmond held his head and let him work, sometimes guiding, sometimes simply receiving, thumb stroking Alastair’s wet cheek in a way that felt like ownership and care at once. Alastair’s hands gripped Desmond’s thighs. His cock leaked steadily in his pants. He had never been this hard, this gone, this certain that the man above him was exactly where he belonged and that Alastair’s mouth was exactly where it was supposed to be.

“Close,” Desmond warned, grip tightening. “You want it on your tongue. You want it on your face. Say it.”

Alastair pulled off, gasping, spit shining from his nose to his chin, and looked up with raw, willing eyes. “Yes. Please. Cum for me. On my tongue, on my face, I want to taste it, I want to wear it, I’m your beta, please let me have it—”

He opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out, stroking that thick cock with a slick fist, sucking the head between pleas, slobbering right up to the edge. Desmond’s breath broke. His hand fisted in Alastair’s hair. The first pulse hit Alastair’s tongue hot and bitter and overwhelming, a thick rope that flooded his mouth. He moaned and kept his tongue out as the next stripe landed across it and his lower lip, then another over his cheek, heavy and white, marking him. Desmond groaned through it, hips jerking, cock throbbing against Alastair’s lips while he painted his beta’s mouth and face in thick, messy ropes.

Alastair swallowed what had landed on his tongue, throat working, eyes half-shut with the shock of the taste and the fierce, flooding satisfaction of having earned it. More clung to his lip and cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. He leaned in while Desmond was still pulsing through the last of it and licked the softening head, gentle now, devoted, cleaning the slit, chasing every drop that welled there. He licked down the shaft, slow and thorough, gathering what had smeared, then came back up and suckled softly until Desmond’s cock was clean and shining only with spit. His own lips were a mess. He licked them, swallowed again, and dragged his tongue over the corner of his mouth where a thick streak had started to cool, chasing it back onto his tongue rather than let it go to waste.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice hoarse and sincere, forehead resting for a moment against Desmond’s thigh. “Thank you for letting me serve. For letting me worship you. I wanted that so much.”

Desmond’s hand loosened in his hair and stroked once, fond and spent. Alastair looked up, face flushed and streaked, mouth swollen, and found Desmond looking back with the same quiet certainty he’d worn at the start, only warmer now. They shared it—a satisfied, knowing smile, small and real, no performance left in it.

Alastair rose on unsteady legs. Desmond tucked himself away, unhurried. Alastair wiped his chin with the back of his hand, then thought better of hiding all of it and only made himself presentable enough for the elevator. His knees ached in the best way. The office smelled like sex and cologne.

“Next week,” Desmond said, buckling his belt. “Same time. If you still want to be my beta.”

“I will.” Alastair met his eyes, mouth still tasting of him, and smiled back. “I’ll be here. On my knees.”