Work and Play Pt. 01

In hopes of becoming the youngest CEO of OrtegaTech, 24 year old Ezekiel Hartigan has decided to ditch most of his sexual side to make room for work. All work no play has been his motto since he graduated college, and he's determined to make his marks. A vying friend, a certain vice chairman, and a joke dildo might just change all that. Read as Zeke tries to balance his heavy work life with an even heavier (and sexier) personal life.

{Note: the beginning is for readers to get to know Zeke, and although I recommend reading it, the real action starts after the second series of dashes. Thank you for reading.}

*****

Everyone dreams they'll land their dream job right out of college. That, granted they didn't do too much partying, their hard-earned degree will grant wishes of perfect interviews and their name at the tip top of the list. They think back, way back, to the torturous high school days; even if they were part of the popular crowd, they never truly felt a place in the world where they 100% belonged.

I'm a realist.

Dreams are what happens when your imagination is too strong, it still holds on when you're asleep. That's just pathetic. I've had dreams, sure. Literal dreams, sometimes nightmares.

Dreams are present-tense and sometimes past-tense, never future-tense. When people talk about their long-time dreams, what they refer to are goals that they don't want to work toward.

So I will put it simply: my long term goal, the goal that I work hard for, is to be President of a company. CEO. Yes, this has been my goal since I was thirteen years old, and eleven years later, I'm here... almost.

I've been at OrtegaTech for a year and a half as a directing manager. Advertising. I'm not complaining. Paycheck is good; last year, I took home about $87,000. It's especially good, since I'm only paying for one. No time to focus on relationships when I'm trying to make $1 million by the time I'm 25. Relationships are a silly "dream". OrtegaTech is growing, and I plan to be there through every step of the way.

OTech's current President and CEO is Roderick Tracy, and he's under questioning for fraud. Bye bye, Roderick. I keep my eyes on the prize.

Naturally, I do everything I can to know the inside scoop of the place: who we're merging with, who we're absorbing, what patents we're pending... who is getting fired, etc. It helps that my best friend, Shannon, is a top-level financial manager at OTech, having relations with the Chairman, Phil Ortega, brother of the deceased founder, Rob Ortega. Shannon and I were fighting for my job way back when. I hated her guts and I hated her perfect curly hair and pretty, dark skin. I hated the way she could speak in front of a crowd perfectly (not that I had problems with that; I have a bittersweet feeling about competition).

But I got the job. And Shannon got one that paid more. Touché.

We decided at a company barbeque (celebrating a checkpoint in sales) that we should just be friends. I admire wit and someone who knows how to use the extent of their vocabulary when needed, and Shannon is just all of those wrapped in one.

My small office space smells entirely like coffee and beef jerky, coincidentally the only lunch I've had today. I'm not unhealthy, I just didn't have time to pack a decent lunch. I spent last night cooking for about three hours, preparing for the five-person dinner party I'm hosting in celebration of my new house tonight.

It's really small, one story and two bedrooms, but I love it. My whole apartment fit inside this house. My brother gave me his old oven so I wouldn't have to purchase a new one. I wouldn't say it's cozy and "cute", but if some hot-shot magazine for interior design came by, I think I'd hold up.

Shannon hasn't even been inside yet. I invited her, her boyfriend, Nathan, my other close friend, Grayson, and Alicia, his friend. I suppose she's my friend, too, since we seemed to hit it off well when Grayson introduced her to me. Maybe I should've invited one more guest so I'm not fifth-wheeling in my own house, but I don't care. I'm sure Shannon will talk to me at least.

Speaking of the devil, Shannon taps on my door with her pen, giving me this annoyed look. "You've been nonstop all day. You didn't even eat lunch, Zeke. I know because when you pretend to have lunch, you take all of the slim jims from the cup."

"I don't want to have to worry about this when I get home, Shanaynay," I sigh. "If I end up talking about all the work I have to do at my own dinner party, nobody will ever want to come over to my house again." At the mention of lunch, I find myself reaching toward my cup of vanilla coffee, then hesitating. That shit is probably room temperature now.

Shannon throws me a look, one where she quirks her lips up and raises one eyebrow. I get distracted by her intimidation, and take a sip of the freezing coffee. "Zeke, you know, you're not the only one working here. You don't have to do everything." I just wince at the bitter taste of my drink and give her a shrug. Shannon shrugs. "Speaking of working here, that vice chairman just came in. He's setting up his office upstairs and... he brought a secretary," Shannon teases. Her voice flips like she's singing on that last part.

"Are you pregnant?" I ask casually, pushing my glasses up on my nose.

"What?! No, Zeke. What the—"

"Just asking. It's very out of character for you to try to set me up with women you haven't even met. Or women you have met, for that matter." Shannon frowns and shakes her head, dark waves of thick hair swishing as she covers her face.

Oh, sure. Shannon and I have been great friends for about eight months. That doesn't mean she gets to know I'm gay. That's more personal.

"You're gonna have to meet someone someday, Zeke. What if she's nice? C'mon, you know I don't usually do this, but besides your excitement on getting this new house, you're a pain in the ass. I bet you don't even know half the people you work with here." Shannon reveals a brown bag she's been concealing behind her back. A sandwich. My stomach groans at the thought as she sets it on my desk. It also groans because she's probably right. For every familiar face I walk past, there's a face I don't know.

"Big picture, Shannon. You can set me up after I'm CEO of this company and make over a million dollars a year," I say with a smirk. Shannon perks up. Her gossip face. She closes the door to my office.

"Speaking of CEO, rumor has it Mr. Bigshot vice chairman is here to do some interviews and be the deciding factor in choosing our next CEO... meaning Roderick Tracy is definitely out of here," Shannon explains lowly. "They want to interview some upper-level positions in the next few months. Get to know the area and the people in it before making a decision. That means they might interview someone like... oh, I don't know... a very successful and young directing manager of advertising and sales?"

I huff, acting as if that doesn't get my nerves buzzing like crazy. Good god, I can't believe CEO is even in reach for me. I haven't even been here for two years.

"This means you'll have to be nice to people, Zeke. You'll have to get to know people, Zeke." Shannon sits on the edge of my desk. "I swear you are the most stubborn redhead I've ever met."

"They'll look at you, first, you know," I counter. "You and the general manager, whoever he is."

"You mean Grayson."

I open the brown bag and try not to moan too sexually at the aroma of cheddar, ham, and olives. "What about Grayson?"

"Grayson is our general manager...? You didn't know that your best friend was the general manager of this place?" Shannon chuckles. I say nothing, but I feel my cheeks redden. "Christ, Zeke, seriously? Zeke was promoted to general manager six months ago." My lips stay closed.

That's embarrassing. "Okay, you officially are going to go out and use your people-skills to be in the running for this job."

"I told Grayson to eat shit the first time I met him," I say quietly.

Shannon shrugs as if she's not surprised. "I remember. He told me what you said. Then he told you to get laid. Still relevant."

"Oh, fuck off."

-------

My guests won't be here until 7:30.

I've panicked for an hour now, straightening up and ironing curtains. I'm not heating the food until about twenty-five minutes beforehand. I took my Adderall as soon as I got off from work at 5. Can't be an ADHD mess at my first dinner party.

By the time I stop stressing myself out at least a little bit, the shower makes itself an obligation. It's only 6:15; I could stand to soak in some steam.

I set the shower water hot, so the steam immediately begins to circulate in the bathroom. I'm taking a long shower tonight. I deserve it. The last time I really enjoyed myself and did something worthwhile was the company Christmas Secret Santa.

I strip off my clothes, toss them on my bed, and nakedly make my way to the bathroom.

I used to hate my height. Taller than average but still short at 5'10". Back then, though, I thought I liked girls. And girls liked tall boys.

Men, on the other hand...

My swimmer's build is something I've learned to embrace. I run three times a week, do a few treks of cardio when I have time. Keeping abs was never a problem. Even after a month of nothing, the abs never went away. I'm not complaining.

I used to hate all the freckles, too. They're not plentiful, just spread out on my nose and cheeks and shoulders. I thought they were childish until I was eighteen. The freckles and dark red hair just shoved me into the ginger stereotype. I mean, I kept my hair "stylish" and up to date, per se, but still.

Gosh, I'm glad I'm not so insecure and petty anymore.

My lips, too. Dark and full—I never appreciated them until college. Some of my college friends definitely appreciated my lips. Not saying I was hyper-sexual, but I got solid dick from three different guys on many occasions during those first three years.

Three isn't a large number at all.

Damn, I haven't had sex in two years.

I mean, it's not like I haven't thought about my lack of sexual intercourse before. I just don't think of it often. I slick up my fingers every now and then, working my ass open and working up a sweat but never getting into it. Work is my number one. My goal to become CEO is... it's more... desirable than sex?

Good god I'm a middle-aged mother.

I think back to what Shannon said about my uptightedness as I look under the sink for some body wash. I think about it harder when I look at the box stuffed in the back of my bathroom cabinet. A graduation present from some stupid friends of mine. There's some cotton candy scented lotion and vanilla sugar scented bubble bath, some other more "womanly" products.

And of course, a dildo.

It's not overly large, probably about 7 or 8 inches. It's one of the nicer ones with the more fleshy material and the suction cup at the end. They bought it new, which I always thought was so typical of them. I think it would've been plain insulting if they hadn't. I never threw the items out, of course. Just in case I needed some last minute Christmas gifts for my sisters, I liked having the body wash, perfume, and lotion there. But the dildo on the other hand...

I've tried to convince myself that I kept the thing to remind me of the times when I actually had fun in college. I thought I kept the thing as physical nostalgia of my fun self. An RIP me kind of thing. I thought about sending it to Harper, one of the guys who planned the stupid thing. Then, I had the nerve to say it would look bad if someone found it in my trash. Silly as shit.

I'm getting rid of it today.

I set the damn thing on the counter so I don't forget to toss it after my shower. The hot water is perfect as I step in. I haven't had the chance to relish my full-sized bathroom and shower since I moved out of the apartment.

I take my time with the soap, thoroughly and sensually scrubbing away work related grime and coffee smell from my skin. I look down at my abs, nice and defined without being too hard. Damn, I'm hot. I could most definitely be a flirt with my overly long, dark eyelashes and baby blue eyes and small nose and baby-doll lips. I could twink myself up if I weren't so damn opposed to human activity.

At the thought, my mind takes it and it multiplies.

Ugh, I can even see myself peeking under my eyelashes and imagining some unrealistic macho man rough me up with big, heavy hands, pressing me into a bed—no, a couch—and mouthing quick, degrading commands into my lips—

I find my hand wandering down to the thickness of my dick, stroking slowly.

My lips probably red and swollen from a combination of coarse kisses and having a fat cock in my mouth. My hips probably bruised with hand prints and maybe a few slaps here and there. I'd probably bite my lip and keep up some whiny, desperate encouragement so he wouldn't stop touching me. God, this is pretty good. I was a good writer in high school. This, this is what imagination is for.

I smile at my very tiny, very short fantasy, and decide to just get to work. I peek my upper half out of the shower to grab the Vaseline from the cabinet, and the head of that dildo stares me right in the face. I shake away from it, set the Vaseline on the ledge of the tub, and slow my breathing a little. Thirty damn seconds of actually imagining being with somebody, and I'm about to have a fucking sex/ADHD overload.

I think I can work in two fingers easily and instantly. I slick up the digits and do some slow circling around my asshole before slowly inserting both fingers in. Like I thought, it's no sweat. Hah, who needs company when I know my body better than anyone?

Oh, right. Don't be a middle-aged mom, Zeke. Sometimes, sex is good when there's someone to do it with.

After a good few minutes of slow in and out, scissoring my fingers to feel more relaxed, I decide to insert a third. I'm not going to excite myself too much tonight. If I wanted exciting, I would hire some hooker.

My ring finger joins my first two, and it's like my mind completely forgets to stay civil. Instantly, I'm back to that stupid fantasy, some imaginary man dictating my every pleasure. He presses his forehead to mine, making me feel like I have no control. I can feel his cock pulse against mine.

My actual dick jumps at the thought.

His fingers trail up my side, to my neck, to my lips. Like a good boy, I open my mouth and let him invade with the digits, violating me. God, it feels good to not be in control of something for once. I'm in charge all the time and imaginary man is just showing me how much I need to let go of that.

I realize my eyes are closed, but I don't care.

Imaginary man keeps his fingers in my mouth. He tells me to suck and I do, eagerly. I suck with my eyes closed and my head bobbing dramatically. After a minute, he takes those same fingers, trailing them back down to my open legs, back down to my exposed body, feeding those thick fingers one by one into me, pumping slowly.

Actual me moans out loud.

Actual me has three fingers in my ass, playing out this cheap, B grade fantasy but I don't give a shit. Fuck, I need this.

Imaginary me throws my head back, breathing heavily, enjoying his fingers, enjoying the other hand that holds one ankle to keep my legs open should I get too excited.

He works me open, brushing my prostate and fucking his fingers into me until I'm a moaning, begging mess.

My eyes snap open. I'm still at home. Still have the shower running. I bend over and place one foot on the upper part of the ledge. I forgot how good this could be, I really did. I'm by myself again, fucking my own fingers in and out. I don't know why I'm fighting this fantasy so hard.

My fingers brush my prostate again, and I moan yet again. Loud and long.

And the fantasy is back.

I don't know what imaginary man says, but I'm obedient, turning over to expose my round ass. A few slaps, probably, a knead here and there. In no time, he's pressing a large dick into my tight ass—

damn it, I'm fingering myself fast—

he's pressing into me--

it's not good enough, damn it—

he... fuck.

My eyes snap open again and I practically rip the shower curtain away from me. I grab a hold on that big latex dildo and struggle with the suction cup, almost slipping and falling into the tub, but I'm alright. I quickly slam the suction cup onto the ledge on the inside of the shower, giving it a few good tugs to make sure it stays put.

I can hardly get a decent breath to fill my lungs as I desperately swoop two large fingerfuls of Vaseline from the small tub and lather it all over the toy. I need it. I need that damn thing to fill my ass and make me feel like a dirty little college freshman again.

I need to feel like I did when both Harper and his friend Landon tag teamed me my second week at Harvard: like a little slut with a big sexual appetite. It's been damned long since I thought I was ever worthy of that.

I spread my ass cheeks and slowly lower myself onto that thick, gorgeous dildo—god, why didn't I do this a long fucking time ago?—with my eyes rolled back and my mouth open like a porn star.

"Fuuuuuuck—" I hear myself moan. I'm all the way at the hilt of this thing. Dear god dear Mary dear someone this is the most magnificent feeling in all of the earth.

I don't hesitate for a goddamn second, ignoring the painful parts and jetting all of my focus into the magnificent stretching of my tight ass—oh fuck it's so thick—and relishing every single part of this thing filling up my hole just like I need it to. I slowly and diligently find the power in my legs to shift up and down, and decide against the gentleness. I'm already bouncing on the cock, my mouth is open and head thrown back like a cock-loving little whore and I love it.

I get a good grip on the tub with one hand and the other strokes my dick in the rhythm of my continuous bouncing. It's been two years since I've had something cock-sized inside me, coincidentally the last thing being an actual cock, and I feel that yearning bubble up to the surface.

My pace and fervor is nothing short of animalistic, feeling that fleshy latex hit my prostate over and over again—I thought my asthma was gone but my lungs feel like bursting—and letting the moans and groans rip from my throat, echoing throughout the four walls of my bathroom. It's like I can feel every detail of the thing, the veins and cockhead plunging into my tight asshole, making me cry out desperately.

I can feel the buildup deep in my groin and stroke faster, harder. Oh, I need to cum. I'm practically aching. My thumb slips over the dark head of my cock and my whole body jerks in response. Dear god I'm so close. I'm so--

🎶 welcome to the good life- 🎶

I'm. Getting. Interrupted. By. My. Goddamn. Cell phone.

The larger part of me says fuck it and wants to ride out my orgasm, but the other part wonders if it's one of my dinner party guests calling for directions or an address.

The Kanye West tune plays out for five more seconds before I let my guard down, push the curtain out of the way, and grab my phone... still partially seated on the dildo.

It's Grayson.

"Hello?" I say as I struggle to catch breath.

"...Hey, buddy," Grayson chuckles. "We've been outside for about five minutes now, unless we're at the wrong place..."

I quickly glance up at the bathroom clock. 6:37. Oh fuck me. I said 6:30, not 7:30. For fuck's sake I don't even have the food in the oven, I'm hard as marble in my bathtub. God dammit, Zeke, you fucking idiot.

"Oh my... I completely lost track of time. I'm in the shower... good god, Grayson, I'm so freaking sorry," I groan, slowly removing the sacred dildo from inside me.

"No problem! We can go drive around for ten minutes while you get ready," Grayson says.