Fat Hairy Boss Drains His Balls in CNC Faggot Bitch

The office had gone quiet an hour ago. Fluorescents hummed over empty cubicles, and the only light that mattered sat in Damon's corner office, spilling across the desk where Cyrus had been called to stay late. Cyrus was twenty-eight, three years into the job, and he knew the shape of these Fridays by now: another week of deadlines, another night when his boss stayed past everyone else and got meaner with every hour he didn't get off.

Damon was fifty-two, thick through the middle, and sweating through a dress shirt that had given up somewhere around four. Dark hair matted his open collar and crawled up his neck. His sleeves were rolled, forearms dense and damp, and when he shifted in the chair his pants pulled tight over a heavy bulge that had been growing since the last client call. He looked frustrated in the particular way of a man who had been hard too long and had nowhere to put it. The smell of him reached across the desk—salt, heat, the sour edge of a long day trapped under hair and cheap cologne.

Cyrus kept his hands flat on his knees. He had thought about this all week. He had watched Damon's temper fray and his eyes drop to Cyrus's mouth when he thought no one noticed, and he had decided, cleanly, that he wanted it. Not a promotion. Not a favor. Just the use.

"I know you're wound up," Cyrus said. His voice stayed low. "Horny. Frustrated. I can see it."

Damon's jaw worked. He didn't deny it.

"I'll submit," Cyrus went on. "You can drain those sweaty hairy balls. Use me however you need. But you never mention it. Not tomorrow, not in a review, not if we pass in the hall. It doesn't exist outside this room."

Damon stared at him. The bulge twitched. Sweat tracked down from his hairline into the thick beard shadow along his jaw.

"And if I want it rough," Damon said. "If I want to treat you like you didn't ask."

"That's the deal," Cyrus said. "CNC. You already have my yes. Once we start, you don't check in. You use me like a faggot bitch until you're empty. I want that. I agreed to it. Afterward, silence."

Damon's breath left him in a rough sound. He nodded once.

"Deal," he said. "Get over here."

The professional mask dropped the second the word left him. Damon shoved his chair back, thick thighs spread, and the look on his face went dark and hungry. He crooked two fingers.

"On your knees, faggot bitch. You offered. Now you're mine until these balls are drained."

Cyrus stood. His pulse hammered, but his hands were steady when he unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall. Belt, pants, briefs—he stripped in the spill of the desk lamp until he was naked on the carpet, twenty-eight and hard already, cock flushed against his stomach. He dropped to his knees between Damon's legs and looked up.

Damon grabbed a fistful of his hair and hauled him in close enough that the heat off his crotch hit Cyrus's face. The bulge was obscene under the strained fabric, a fat ridge pressed sideways, the cloth darkened where sweat had soaked through. Damon palmed himself once, groaning, then yanked the zipper down. The smell rolled out thicker—musk, salt, the ripe funk of a heavy man who had been sitting on a hard-on all afternoon. Dark hair curled over the waistband of his briefs. He shoved them down under his balls and his cock swung free, thick and flushed dark, veins standing, the head already wet. His balls hung heavy and hairy beneath it, the sac glistening, hair plastered flat with sweat.

"Look at that," Damon growled. "That's what you asked for. You wanted these sweaty hairy balls emptied in you. Say it."

"I want you to drain them," Cyrus said. His mouth was already open. "Use me. Don't mention it after. Just use your faggot bitch."

"Good bitch." Damon slapped the wet head against Cyrus's lips, smearing precum and salt across them. "Mouth open. No hands. You take what I give you."

Cyrus opened. Damon didn't ease in. He fed the thick shaft over Cyrus's tongue and kept going until the head bumped the back of his throat, then grabbed both sides of Cyrus's head and started to fuck. The first strokes were short and mean, testing, then longer, hips rolling off the chair, belly pressing forward, the hairy base bumping Cyrus's nose. Spit spilled immediately. Cyrus gagged and took it, eyes watering, hands braced on Damon's thick thighs, the hair there damp under his palms. Every thrust shoved the taste of sweat and skin deeper. Damon's balls swung and slapped his chin, heavy, hot, reeking.

"That's it," Damon snarled. "Choke on it. Eager little faggot bitch, kneeling after hours so your fat hairy boss can dump a week's worth of cum. You love this. You asked for it. Take it deeper."

Cyrus moaned around the cock and pushed forward on the next stroke, throat opening, nose buried in the sweaty thatch. Damon held him there until his lungs burned, then dragged him off by the hair, strings of spit connecting them, and shoved back in. The chair creaked. Damon's gut heaved with his breathing. He face-fucked in rough, greedy strokes, talking the whole time—faggot, hole, bitch, mine—filthy CNC talk that made Cyrus's own cock jump and leak onto the carpet. Cyrus wanted every word. He had agreed to be used exactly like this, and the roughness only made the yes louder in his chest.

Damon pulled out with a wet pop, cock shining, balls drawn tight and shining with sweat. He stood, hauling Cyrus up by the arm, and spun him toward the desk.

"Bend over. Ass up. I'm not done with my bitch."

Cyrus braced on the blotter, papers scattering, and spread his feet. Damon kicked them wider. A thick, hairy hand shoved between his shoulder blades and pinned his chest to the wood. The other hand spread his ass, thumb dragging through sweat, then two fingers pushed in dry enough to burn and wet enough from spit that they sank. Cyrus hissed and pushed back.

"Greedy," Damon said. "Listen to you. Begging with your hole before I even ask." He spat, worked it in, then lined up. The fat head pressed, paused one brutal second, and drove in.

Cyrus shouted into his forearm. Damon didn't stop. He buried himself to the root in one long, heavy shove, hairy belly flush to Cyrus's back, balls pressed hot against him, and started to pound. The desk jumped. Each stroke was deep and mean, hips slapping, the wet sound of it filling the quiet office. Damon gripped Cyrus's hips hard enough to bruise and fucked like he had been waiting all week for a hole that wouldn't tell him to slow down.

"Tight faggot bitch hole," he growled against Cyrus's ear, breath sour and hot. "This is what you signed up for. Rough. No mercy. I'm going to pound this ass until my sweaty hairy balls are empty. You feel them? Heavy. Full. You've been looking at them all night, haven't you. Wanting them drained in you."

"Yes," Cyrus gasped. "Yes—use me—fuck, harder—"

"Harder." Damon obliged. He hauled Cyrus's hips back to meet every thrust, cock punching deep, the ridge of the head dragging over that spot until Cyrus's legs shook. Sweat dripped from Damon's chest onto Cyrus's spine. Hair scratched. The smell of both of them mixed, sex and office air and the ripe heat rolling off Damon's body. He reached around and found Cyrus's cock, not to be kind—just to fist it rough while he talked.

"Look at you leaking. My eager bitch. You agreed to this. You said I could treat you like a hole and never speak of it. So that's what you are. A faggot bitch hole for your gross old boss to dump in. Say it while I fuck you."

"I'm your faggot bitch," Cyrus moaned, voice breaking on a particularly deep stroke. "Drain your balls in me. Don't stop. I want it—I want all of it—"

Damon laughed, short and filthy, and kept pounding. The rhythm turned brutal, less controlled, the sound of skin on skin loud in the empty floor. Cyrus took it, pushing back, hole clenching, cock dripping over Damon's stroking fist. Every degrading line landed exactly where he wanted it. He had asked for CNC and he was getting it: no gentle check, no softening, just a frustrated fat man using the employee who had offered himself up.

Damon pulled out suddenly, cock slick and angry-red, and flipped Cyrus onto his back across the desk. Papers stuck to sweat. He grabbed Cyrus's ankles, shoved his legs wide and back until his knees nearly touched his shoulders, and pinned him there with his weight. The position opened everything. Damon looked down at the flushed, used hole and spit on it again, then drove back in to the hilt.

Cyrus's mouth fell open. Damon fucked him like that, deep and grinding, belly pressing Cyrus's thighs, hairy chest heaving above him, sweat dripping onto Cyrus's stomach and face. Each stroke bottomed out. His heavy balls swung and slapped, soaked, the hair on them darkened and stuck together.

"Gonna unload," Damon panted. "Right where you asked. Deep in my faggot bitch. You feel how full these balls are? A whole week. All of it going in you. Take it. Take every rope."

"Please," Cyrus begged, and meant it. "Cum in me. Drain them. Use your bitch—fill me—"

Damon snarled and hammered harder, the desk rattling, his grip bruising on Cyrus's thighs. His rhythm broke. He shoved in as deep as he could get, hips locked, and came with a guttural sound that filled the office. Thick pulses flooded Cyrus's ass, hot and heavy, one after another, Damon's balls drawing up tight against him as they emptied. He ground through it, still talking, voice wrecked.

"That's it. Drain. Every drop. My sweaty hairy balls, emptied in a willing faggot bitch who bent over and asked for it. Take it. Milk it. Don't you waste a drop."

Cyrus came with him, untouched at the end, cock jerking against his own stomach, moaning and begging through it, hole clenching around the thick shaft still pumping inside him. Damon kept him pinned and kept grinding until the last weak spurt leaked out around his cock and ran down onto the blotter. He stayed buried a moment longer, breathing hard, sweat dripping from his beard onto Cyrus's chest, then slowly pulled out.

Cum followed, a thick spill over Cyrus's hole and onto the desk. Damon wiped his spent, shining cock across Cyrus's face—cheek, mouth, the bridge of his nose—smearing the mix of spit and cum and sweat without ceremony. Cyrus lay there panting, legs still spread, leaking, marked.

Damon tucked himself away, zipped up, and straightened his damp shirt as well as it would go. His face had already started to close back into the boss Cyrus would see on Monday.

"Agreement stands," he said, voice low and flat. "This didn't happen. You don't bring it up. I don't bring it up. You walk out of here like you stayed late on a spreadsheet."

Cyrus nodded, throat raw, ass throbbing and full. "Understood."

Damon grabbed his jacket off the chair, didn't look back, and left the office. The door clicked shut. His heavy footsteps faded down the hall toward the elevator.

Cyrus stayed bent where he was for a long moment, cum cooling on his skin and leaking steadily onto the wood, the smell of Damon's sweat still in his nose. His hole ached in the best way. He already knew Friday would come around again, and he already knew what he would do when that bulge came back and the temper frayed. Next time he would lock the outer door first. Next time he would be on his knees before Damon even had to say the word, mouth open, ready to take another week's worth until those heavy balls were drained dry again. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smiled into the quiet, and started planning exactly how he would offer.