Erotic short. A client hires a temporary assistant with specialist skills.
Explicit M/M short between a cis male werewolf and a trans male angel. Set in the same brothel as Angel’s Wings. Contains come inflation, knotting, desk sex, workplace sex, overstimulation, size kink, belly kink.
“Bird,” said Mr Burlac, and Bird glanced up from where he had been playing dominos with Germain over lunch. It was warm and pleasant in the brothel’s little dining room, and as he and Germain ate their lunch, Cordelia ate her own at the other end of the table, Mrs Rainsby — a client — resting on her knees with her head cushioned on Cordelia’s thigh, her ears plugged and her eyes wrapped about with a blindfold. “I’m sorry to interrupt you on your lunch — I have a gentleman here for a consultation.”
It wasn’t like Mr Burlac to interrupt whilst they were on their breaks, and Bird and Germain shared a curious look before looking back to him.
Mr Burlac smiled, his moustache shifting, and he shrugged his shoulders.
“I can come out,” said Bird, “Give me a moment to wash my hands. Should I change?”
“No, no, you’ll be alright in that,” said Mr Burlac, and Bird stood to his feet, washing his hands in the little basin, his wings shifting in a cowl around his shoulders. He was a little tired, still — he’d been working between six and eleven with an inexhaustible regular who dropped in from time to time, and as much as Bird liked sex and even liked a marathon, after a while he’d just sort of gone limp and taken it —
Which, admittedly, was exactly what was wanted of him.
Now, he was dressed in loose silk pyjamas and moving a little bit tenderly, giving himself a few hours for the bruises to heal in their entirety — he liked them very much, it was just difficult to work with them — and he had been taking a long lunch.
“What do you think?” asked Germain idly.
“Tentacles,” said Bird. “Or a mermaid. It’s spring, after all. Breeding season.”
“It’s always you that gets those,” said Germain, with a sort of wistful sigh, and Bird laughed. “Why don’t I get them?”
“Didn’t a merman try to lay eggs in you once, and your flesh was so unyielding that some of them burst?”
“Oh, yes,” said Germain. “That’s probably it.”
Bird laughed, and still in his slippers he padded out into the main room, nodding to Ariadne when she gestured for Bird to go into Mr Burlac’s office. That was a sign of something in itself — it was only the very rich clients, or the old friends, that went into Mr Burlac’s office, and it was quite a while since Bird had met someone in there.
He was a very big man, almost seven feet in height, and thick, brown-bristled hair showed on the back of his clenched fists and on his face. He didn’t have a muzzle, exactly, but there was a wolfish quality to his features that Bird distantly recognised as lycanthropy — it wasn’t a traditional presentation, as far as he knew, but not so uncommon that he hadn’t seen it before.
Lycanthropy manifested so differently from one person to another you couldn’t really predict it — most people had transformations every month or so, in line with their hormonal cycles, as regular or irregular as those could be, but there were plenty of people who took on permanent traits like Mr Flore.
All he really knew that was guaranteed with lycanthropy, for werewolves or for anybody else, was that the bone problems were almost guaranteed, which as far as comorbidities went, was less than ideal.
“Mr Flore, this is Bird. Bird, this is Gian Flore.”
“He looks small,” said Gian, in a sort of low, quiet growl: he shook Bird’s hand, and Bird noticed how much larger his hands were than Bird’s own, his nails thick and dark and long and pointed, hair bristling over his palms as well as the backs of his hands, his arms.
“I can stretch,” Bird assured him pleasantly, and Gian looked at him with a critical yellow eye, with a mostly round pupil, and then grunted a vague approval, nodding his head. “How were you looking for me to help you, Mr Flore?”
“I need a temp,” said Gian.
Bird blinked.
“Two month contract,” said Gian. “Nine to six. Basic administrative duties, mostly, scheduling, taking minutes, forwarding calls. Monday through Thursday full days, half days on Fridays, finish at two. Saturdays and Sundays off.”
“Oh,” said Bird. “Um. I don’t… I don’t do that.”
He glanced to Mr Burlac, who looked not quite as baffled as Bird did — he had evidently already been told the same thing, and had had more time to get over the surprise.
“I’ll pay twice your usual hourly rate,” said Gian. “Lunch is an hour, paid.”
“Right,” Bird said slowly, shifting on his feet as he worked out the hours on that, four-hundred-and-forty-eight hours at twice his usual rate, over two months, for… temp work. It had been years since he’d worked in an office, well over a decade — he liked doing this a lot better.
“I can’t go to a normal temp agency,” said Gian in a quiet mutter, looking embarrassed. “My assistant normally, she normally takes care of everything. Everything,” he added. “But she needs time off, needs to be off her feet. Pregnant.”
“Oh, I see,” said Bird, which wasn’t true, because he didn’t. “Your assistant normally looks after your sexual needs in the office, I take it?”
The werewolf, to Bird’s surprise and delight, looked down at the floor, the skin underneath his bristled cheeks going a sort of ruddy colour. “Mmm,” he growled. “She — Yes. I need it. Angels, you can’t get pregnant, can you?”
“No,” said Bird. “No, we can’t, Mr Flore, that won’t be a problem at all.”
“You’ll do it?” he asked, looking so desperately hopeful that Bird almost had to laugh — but of course, he bit it back.
“Why don’t I just trial one day first?” he suggested. “You can see if I suit you, if I can get on top of everything that needs getting on top of,” (Mr Burlac didn’t laugh, but he smiled slightly beneath his moustaches), “and then if it doesn’t work out, you can hire me to come in on your lunchbreak or at a certain time whenever you need, and we can sort you out then, hm? We do do house calls, Mr Flore — or, as it happens, office calls.”
Gian considered this a moment, and then gave a very solid, clear nod of his head.
“Good,” said Bird, and shook his hand again.
“Hrm,” grumbled Gian when Bird stepped inside the office, stood back as he was holding the door open.
“You don’t like my suit, I take it, Mr Flore?” asked Bird, as he stepped into the office, sliding his coat off and hanging it up on the hook. It was charcoal grey, the shirt light blue and tailored very tightly to his body — the trousers were tightly tailored too, curved around his arse, his thighs. He had folded his wings away, and he watched the way Gian examined his shoulders suspiciously, as though wondering where they were.
“I like skirts,” said Gian.
Bird reached into his briefcase and pulled a pencil skirt out, holding it up for Mr Flore to examine. “Is this more to your preference?” he asked. “Or I could be naked, if you would like.”
“Unprofessional,” said Gian disapprovingly, and Bird smiled at him as he unbuttoned his trousers to change into the skirt indeed.
Gian Flore, it turned out, struggled to type quickly with the length of his claws — he preferred to dictate his emails, and Bird spent a good part of the day settled in his chair, either working through dictated emails or replying to smaller queries as Gian discussed things on the phone. He had a fairly large office, with most of the space unused, and Bird quickly saw why — he spent most of the day pacing its floor.
He didn’t say all that much, and the quieter he got, the more anxious were his coworkers, hurrying to make things right in such a way as Gian would grunt his approval. He ran a tight ship, however, Bird was rather pleased to find: the files on his computer and in his cabinets were kept in perfect order, neatly sorted, and he had a separate wastebin for staples and paperclips to his paper.
He took recycling very seriously, did Gian Flore.
There was something strange and almost unreal about it, sitting down in an office after all this time, replying to emails, typing data from a phone call into a spreadsheet. He hadn’t particularly missed it, but he hadn’t utterly abhorred it, either — and Gian was never impolite or overly demanding, just quiet and blunt.
Once Bird had come back from his lunch, having sat down at a sushi place down the road, he found Gian was sitting back in his chair, and when Bird entered, he looked up to him, and sat up.
“Need it,” he said. “Now.”
“Would you like my mouth or — ”
“Your cunt,” said Gian.
He said the word bluntly, coldly, but his cheeks seemed very hot under his stubble, darkening in their colour, and Bird smiled slightly as he pushed the office door closed, meeting Gian’s amber-brown eyes.
Bird stepped closer as Gian stood to his feet, rolling the chair back. A space had already been cleared on the desk, and Gian’s office was not visible from the corridor, had no windows into the rest of the building, and so he made no hesitation in bending himself neatly over the desk, shimmying his skirt up around his hips so that his pussy was bared to the air.
Gian, releasing a disapproving sound, pulled the skirt down instead, and obediently, Bird kicked it off and onto the floor.
Gian fell against his pussy face first, tongue sloppy and eager as he mouthed into Bird’s folds, and Bird hissed, spreading his thighs further apart and grabbing at the desk beneath him as Gian’s wide, flat tongue slid up the side of his cunt and then down the other before he dipped low to suck Bird’s cock into his mouth.
As good as the sashimi he’d had for lunch had been, it hadn’t quite made him hot and bothered, and the sudden acceleration from 0 to 70 was overwhelming, made him flush pink and whine into the desk. He could feel the blood rush down between his legs as Gian’s tongue dragged over and circled around it, pressing and dragging at it, slurping at it. His stubble felt tremendous, a rough and pleasant drag against the sensitive skin there, as much as his technique was somewhat clumsy. Bird sighed, pressing his face down onto the leather top of the desk, spread his thighs even further apart.
When Gian slid the whole of his long tongue directly into his pussy, pressing down hard against his g-spot, Bird squeaked, and Gian laughed at him in a rumbling way.
“You stretch?” he asked.
“Mmm,” hummed Bird breathlessly, his cheeks burning, his cock twitching with the heat of the saliva dripping from it in the cool air. “Yes, I — aah!”
Gian’s cock was shoved into him in one hard movement, big enough that it hurt, a sudden splitting pain that made Bird grit his teeth at the sting of it, feeling himself spread open like he’d been impaled on a pole. Gian’s cock was a huge thing, as thick around as Bird’s wrist, easily, and it had a heavy curve to it so that his great head dragged at the inside of him as it moved inexorably further inside him.
When Gian’s thickly furred thighs touched the back of Bird’s arse, Bird felt full to the brim, and he blinked blearily, feeling himself heal and adjust to the stretch, wondered if he would see the evidence of the cock shoved inside him if he could lean back and look at his belly, if he could touch it.
“Small,” Gian said approvingly, gripping Bird’s hips.
This was the only warning Bird received before he began to fuck into Bird like his hips had a piston in them.
The first thrust was so hard it winded him, forcing the air out of his lungs and making a deafeningly loud slap of thighs on arse, but Bird was given no respite before he slammed his hips home again. That gloriously big cock pulled and dragged on every withdraw, and Bird yowled as Gian began to fuck him properly, lifting his hips slightly off the table so that he was on his very tiptoes and had no balance, couldn’t do anything but let the other man split him apart.
He liked sex like this, liked very much to be used and played with — not everyone enjoyed being played with so roughly, but as fragile as winged angels were, they healed quickly, and he very much enjoyed the flexibility of his body, what it would allow him to take.
From a sex work perspective, it was certainly lucrative, especially when it came to large insertions or more unusual sexual set-ups, but for this? This was good. Gian’s hips thrust into him again and again, huge cock shoving as deeply as it could go, and Bird felt as though certain cogs inside him were being wound tighter and tighter, tension gathering in the very base of his belly with almost no touch to his clit at all.
It was mindnumbingly good: Gian’s thrusts were fast, deep, and kept to the perfect rhythm, and not for a moment did he yield, did he slow down or stutter in his movements. He meant to say something, to voice some sort of dirty talk to see what effect it had, but he didn’t have any real control over his tongue right now, couldn’t concentrate enough to string a few words together.
All that came out of him was vague noises and sounds of incoherent pleasure, and those seemed to go down very well indeed.
He should have expected the knot, really.
Gian’s thighs kept slapping against his own, so that Bird could feel the bristled drag of the hair on them, and at first he thought Gian had just changed his angle, but then he remembered, then he thought — as much as he could think, with this much cock shoved inside him — and realised exactly what it was.
Gian’s knot was as superlatively big as the rest of him, and it grew fast, swelled from almost nothing into a heavy, thick weight that first made it harder and harder for him to pull back out of Gian’s pussy, and then became so big that it locked the two of them together. It kept growing, even then, so big that Bird felt light-headed and dizzy with pleasure. It pressed on every bit of him, made his whole cunt throb from the wonderful, wonderful pleasure, and when Gian growled into the back of his neck and started rocking his hips instead of thrusting them, Bird felt his come pump out of his cock inside him.
It washed through the inside of his walls, what felt like gallons of it, and Bird moaned desperately into the desktop as he felt Gian’s balls smack against the base of him, against his clit.
Bird squeezed his eyes shut as he felt more and more come pump into him, and he knew precisely what would be coming next, knew to expect it: he felt first a sense of pressure, a growing weight in him, felt the slosh and shift of it, and then felt himself bulge, felt himself stretch.
He liked this better than eggs — eggs were good, and he enjoyed mating season when it came around, but as heavy and delightfully painful as eggs were, he liked come better.
He moaned breathlessly as Gian gripped him by the hips, lifting him further off the desk: beneath him, his belly bulged down to meet the wooden surface, and more and more it was pressed between him and the wood, so that Gian just lifted him higher. His feet no longer touched the ground, and the only thing tethering him to the world at large was Gian’s cock and Gian’s come inside him, Gian’s knot tying him to physicality.
Bird let himself drift with it.
He did come, felt himself jump and clench down around Gian’s knot, felt the wonderful pressure and fullness, rode it through the crest of each wave of pleasure. When he looked down at his belly, he saw the heavy curve of it, and whined as Gian leaned back and dropped heavily into the chair, Bird impaled on his cock, his back leaned back against Gian’s chest.
“Mmm,” said Gian into his ear, putting his bristled palms onto Bird’s belly, squeezing slightly and making Bird’s breath hitch at the pressure, the tightness. “You do stretch.”
Bird opened his mouth, mumbled something vague, and Gian pulled his chair closer to the desk.
“Can you type?” he asked.
“Type?” Bird repeated uncomprehendingly.
“Next time,” said Gian, and opened his laptop, reading emails with Bird rested on his cock as his knot kept them together.
By the last hour of the day, Bird managed to collect himself enough to take a little more dictation, and Gian laughed at him for struggling to focus, kept reaching across to pat his belly and play with it. He’d worked a plug into Bird to keep him from leaking, but there was so much come stuffed in him that Bird waddled as he walked, his skirt barely able to zip up at his waist, under the swell of his stomach.
“Distracting,” Gian rumbled.
It was distracting, the weight of it all in him, the slight slosh as he moved, but it felt good, satisfying.
“Your assistant takes this every day, and just… keeps working?”
“Mm,” said Gian approvingly. “It’s not the only reason I’m marrying her, but — ”
Bird laughed dreamily.
“You’ll take the job?”
“Sure,” said Bird. “If I don’t have any brains left by the end of it, the money will pay for my retirement.”
When he walked up the path to the brothel, he had to do so with his thighs slightly spread apart, his hand rested on his belly as he waddled up, and when he came inside, Ariadne looked at him and raised her eyebrows.
“It’s spring again,” she said dryly, and Bird laughed, coming to lean on the counter. He stroked over his belly, which was bulging out enough that his shirt would no longer button over it, bare skin forcing up the shirt where it was mostly unbuttoned. “You want someone to drive you home?”
“I don’t want to walk,” he admitted, and she laughed, pressing a button on her desk.
“Germain is finished in another hour. Do you mind waiting? Or I can ask Mr Burlac, you know he doesn’t mind.”
“Er, ah, excuse me,” said Erik Denton, one of their regular patrons.
“Hello, Mr Denton,” said Bird pleasantly. “Waiting for an opening?”
“Are you free?” asked Denton immediately, not tearing his gaze away from Bird’s swollen belly. He licked his lips.
“You can have my arse,” said Bird magnanimously. “For an hour.”
“Yes, yes, please,” said Denton, and when Bird laughed, it made the come inside him shift in waves — how would that feel, when Denton was fucking into his arse?
“I’ll let Germain know,” said Ariadne amusedly, and Bird waddled with Denton toward his room.
“Upstairs?” asked Denton.
“Mmm.”
“You first,” said Denton, and Bird began the difficult process of ascending the stairs, Denton admiring his arse the whole time.
It was a real pleasure, to do a job one loved.
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