Room For Dessert

Erotic short. An office worker is taken out for dinner by his new, hot boss.

5.8k, rated E, M/M. Boss/employee, age difference, power dynamics, food kink, stuffing, kissing, a handjob, some mild masochism.

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The restaurant isn’t a fancy one, Kit is relieved to find when he arrives. He’d been terrified it would be, that it would be a far nicer restaurant than he was dressed for — he’s wearing his nicest shoes, shined brown leather, and a heavy cardigan that has stiff shoulders like a suit jacket, but it’s not fit for a proper, fancy restaurant, and he knows it.

It’s not a fine dining place at all — it’s a family-owned place, he would assume, kind of warm and intimate with a log-burning fire in the corner and blue-and-white cloths on all the tables, candles in glasses lit on every table surface.

Mr Lautrec is already there when he arrives, seated at a booth to the side of the room and sitting back with his glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He looks out of place in his fancy dark suit with its dark blue fabric and grey check pattern, his own shoes a purple leather matched to his purple leather watch strap and his purple leather briefcase and his purple silk tie and his purple silk pocket handkerchief.

“Ah, Christopher,” he says quietly — his voice is low but rich, and it puts Kit in mind of the poshest lecturers he had at university, the ones who almost seemed like they were too rich for academia, the ones who seemed like they ought to be above it. That was when he was still pretty naïve about the whole thing, when he still thought that he might have a chance at it himself, that he might be able to approach it as a career without having money in the first place. “Sit across from me, won’t you?”

“Thank you for the invitation, Mr Lautrec,” Kit says as he goes to sit down, hanging his jacket on the back of his chair. It’s a two-person table, and although he casts a glance around the restaurant, which is relatively busy, he doesn’t recognise anybody else from the office. “Is it, um — It’s just us?”

“Just us,” confirms Mr Lautrec, and looks across at Kit over his glasses, his head tipping forward so that he can look at him over their dark, square rims. He’s a handsome man, has the sort of attractive features that in his middle age might be described as dignified.

He’s got a hard shape to his jaw and he’s got a cleft in his chin, his nose with a sharp point to it — when he was younger, he had a hollow to his cheeks and more of a shadow under his eyes, his face shadowed by his own hard bone structure. Kit had looked at the photos and thought about how much better he looked at forty-something than he did at twenty-something, not just because of how sexy the grey was streaking through his hair, or because he was clean-shaven now instead of trying to maintain a stupid moustache, but because he’d put on some weight, and the fat softened his features a bit.

They were still powerful, still kind of statuesque, just that his face didn’t look so starkly featured. He was… attractive. Attractive enough that Kit felt kind of nervous just in his presence, let alone out at dinner with the man.

His boss.

His new fucking boss.

“I like to take new employees out for the evening,” says Lautrec. “To get to know them, hm? I like to think that Friar Holdings is a welcoming company to our new staff.”

“Yes, sir,” says Kit, and Lautrec chuckles, closing the menu and setting it aside.

“Don’t call me sir, Christopher,” he says mildly. “Mr Lautrec will be fine.”

“Mr Lautrec,” echoes Kit, feeling his cheeks tinge slightly pink with heat at the easy condescension of it, the way it obviously comes as naturally to Lautrec as breathing, talking down to an employee.

“You’re from Nottingham, aren’t you?”

“I’m from Brighton,” says Kit. “I just went to university in Nottingham.”

“Ah, Brighton, I see,” says Lautrec, nodding his head. “That must have been an ideal place for you, growing up.”

“Mr Lautrec?”

Lautrec looks across at him, his lips pressing loosely together, his head tilting slightly to the side, his eyebrows raising. He says nothing for a few moments, and it clicks for Kit only after a few seconds, and he looks down at the table cloth, his cheeks burning even hotter.

“Right,” he says. “Yeah. Uh — Yeah.”

“I holidayed in Brighton through most of my twenties,” says Lautrec as he raises his hand, waving over a waiter. “It wouldn’t have occurred to me, as a young homosexual, to leave the gay metropolis for the green fields of Nottingham.”

“I wouldn’t have gotten this job with a degree from Brighton,” says Kit before he can stop himself, and Lautrec freezes as he turns to look at the man who’s come to take their order, then turns to look at him, his lips shifting into a small smile.

“No,” he agrees, and then starts speaking to the waiter in what Kit is pretty sure is rapid Greek. He gestures as he speaks, to Kit, to the table, and before Kit can open his mouth and try to say something, the waiter is walking away. “You’re not a vegetarian, I hope?”

“No, Mr Lautrec.”

“No allergies, no intolerances?”

“No, Mr Lautrec.”

“Good, good. The food here is tremendously good, Christopher. I eat here often. Have you much experience with Greek food?”

“Not really,” says Kit, tapping his fingers against his knees. “I’ve had — Like, gyros. In a pita bread?”

“Mm, this is more of a mezze restaurant,” says Lautrec. “Small plates, to be eaten with drinks. You do drink?”

“Not much.”

“No, not much,” Lautrec repeats, his lips twitching up at their corners. “You can’t be too drunk in front of your employer, can you?”

Kit can’t shake the feeling that something’s afoot here that he can’t get a handle on, something he can’t predict before it happens. What the fuck is going on? Is he going to be, what, date rape-drugged and molested? Is Lautrec going to get him drunk and then molest him?

(A part of Kit, sudden and spectacularly loud, is very keen on the idea of remaining sober, so he can fully experience the molestation.)

“Where are you from?” he blurts out.

“I was born in Clapham,” says Lautrec. “But I grew up between London and Thessaloniki.”

“Greek food is like home for you, then?”

“There comes a point in our lives when we can never go home, young man,” says Lautrec. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? “It becomes a nostalgic memory, no longer possible to attain in the land of the waking.”

“What?”

Lautrec gives him a cool look, as if it’s Kit that’s just said something mental. “Yes,” he amends himself, tone dripping with a distant disgust, like he’s being made to lower himself somehow. “It feels like home.”

Kit feels caught off guard in this situation, has no idea what exactly the right things are to say, to do — when he’d got the invitation he’d been nervous about it, having it appear on his desk when he’d come back from a meeting downstairs, but he had thought, had hoped, that it would be a big group of employees together, or at least a few of the people from his floor. It hadn’t even occurred to him, although the invitation had been signed from Mr Lautrec’s secretary and had said Lautrec’s name, that the two of them would even talk that much directly.

He’d had his initial interview with Robin Brave, one of the hiring managers, and most of his orientation had been with a few of the other junior management staff, but at the end of his first training day he’d been asked into Mr Lautrec’s office, and he’d sat across from him with his huge desk between them, answered questions as Mr Lautrec had gone through his intake information.

It had been small talk, really, nothing that should really have made him that uncomfortable except for the natural anxiety of being one on one with your boss’ boss, but it had been —

Fuck’s sake.

It had been scary in just the right way to make him hard when he’d gone home and thought about it. The actual job wasn’t that difficult, was mostly data entry and collation, but he’d never enjoyed the environment of a lot of workplaces, had never felt comfortable fitting himself in with a lot of corporate environments. At university, he’d gone to a few networking events and fucking hated it, but he’ done his best to assimilate, to fit in.

The thing was, because people were so fucking polite, they always hooked onto anything about a new person that was obvious to make small talk about — asked about their job or their accent or where they got that shirt.

In Kit’s case, the obvious thing about him was that he was gay.

Nobody said it. Nobody said, “Hey, Christopher, it seems to me that you’re some kind of fruit. Are you slutty about it, or are you one of those domesticated gays?” Nobody said, “Hey, Christopher, you’re gay, right? Are you the kind of gay that’s a stereotype I’m familiar with, or do I have to learn a new one?”

If they were that direct about it, at least it’d be funny.

No, instead he got, “So… do you, um, enjoy the night life around town?” or “You must dress really well!” or “Who’s your favourite queen on this season of Drag Race?”

Mr Lautrec hadn’t done that.

In the course of their little introductory interview he hadn’t asked anything about his dating life, or made any kind of oblique references to gay pop culture, had just asked if he liked the work, and then he’d asked if the commute was bearable.

It had felt like a subtle way to ask if he was reliant on public transport, which he was, and Kit had just shrugged his shoulders and said it was fine.

“You’re entitled to expenses for your train and/or bus fare,” Lautrec had said without looking up from the papers in his hands — for the whole conversation, he’d barely actually looked at Kit, had mostly been going between his papers and his computer, like he’d double-booked Kit with his actual working hours. “Not the whole of your fare, I expect, but a good percentage of it. My advice would be to purchase a monthly ticket that you might bring in one receipt for the period, but you can email individual receipts for your day-to-day travel expenses in the meantime.”

Kit hadn’t known exactly what to say to that, because no one had mentioned anything about travel expenses to him, but Lautrec hadn’t stopped to ask him to say thank you, had just started talking about when his training period would be over, when his end-of-probation interview would be and what it would consist of, and then had just handed over a pamphlet outlining more employee benefits, not just the travel stuff, but also health insurance, a gym membership, some bullshit online mindfulness resources.

It had all been smooth and condescending and business-like and honestly, kind of dehumanising? But in the sort of way that had made him wank himself off until the water was cold in the shower later, thinking about how Lautrec would talk to him as Kit sucked him off, how he’d grip his hair like it was disgusting to touch it, but a necessary evil if he wanted to manoeuvre Kit’s head.

“How are you settling in?” asks Lautrec as the waiter comes back, sets down a carafe of water and two glasses, then a beer in front of Kit — a Mythos — and another carafe and a wine glass in front of Lautrec.

“Maybe I like wine,” says Kit.

“Do you?” asks Lautrec, pouring them both glasses of water.

“No,” says Kit.

“You’re as yet young,” says Lautrec. “Your palate isn’t developed yet.”

Kit’s lips twitch. “More of my tastebuds will die as I get older, you mean,” he says. “So things will taste different.”

Lautrec’s chuckle is a quiet thing, thin and understated, but for some reason the fact that it’s so quiet feels more real, or more exciting. It’s an indulgent noise, almost, and Kit thinks about that, about this old man indulging him, about tugging Kit to sit on his knee somewhere public where people could see, where they’d see and look over and stare, where they’d think Kit was a slut, some stupid twink who was obviously getting fucked by that old man. There was something about it, the sweet heat of it when he was with an older guy, of knowing what people thought when they looked over — that Kit was using him for money, that he had daddy issues, that he’d probably been touched up as a kid or just that he was a pervert, whatever.

It made it hotter, for some reason.

The way people didn’t get it, the way people made assumptions, the way people looked at him with an older guy and at the same time as they thought the other man was taking advantage, they thought he deserved it.

And maybe he did, for thinking about it so much, which he fucking does — he’s thinking about it now, about how people would look over if Lautrec took Kit in his lap right now, if he spread Kit’s legs out over Lautrec’s lap and slipped fingers into his arse, if he teased him, made him beg to come in the middle of this fucking restaurant.

Christ, he needs to actually get fucking laid.

“I repeat my earlier question,” says Lautrec. “How are you settling in?”

“Fine,” says Kit, biting the inside of his lip. “The work is okay, I’m getting on top of it okay.”

“You’re getting on top of it,” Lautrec repeats, his voice full of mockery. “Young man, the work is easy for you. You’ve been pacing yourself throughout the course of the day to ensure you don’t drastically outpace your coworkers in terms of your output. You’re quite adept at appearing busy, I will grant you.”

Kit’s stomach drops, and for a second he’s terrified he’s about to be fired, that Lautrec is gonna fucking tell him it’s bullshit that he’s been finishing his quota and not telling anybody, that he’s meant to ask for more work —

Lautrec glances up at him across the table. He’s got dark eyes, brown with flecks of a lighter brown colour — flecks of hazel.

“You look terrified,” he says mildly, pouring himself a glass of wine. “It’s hardly a crime to be proficient at an office job, Christopher. I’m assuming a basic administrative role was not your dream as you worked your way through your history degree, hm, or your Masters? It’s only natural that this particular profession should bore you. It’s busywork for a holdings company — a company that exists only to coordinate and administrate the business of other companies. While you destroy nothing, equally, you create nothing — your work exists entirely in the abstract realm of profits and deficits that have no impact whatsoever in the wilder world. It is work that exists purely to occupy you — like most office work, it is work created for the purposes of hiring young people like you. The company justifies its existence, and therefore its obscene profits, despite contributing nothing of value in any real sense, by hiring a workforce.”

Kit stares at Mr Lautrec across the table. “You’re telling me that my job only exists to justify the fact that the company we work at is a leech on society?”

“A sort of societal vampire, yes.”

“Is this — Is this some kind of trap? Like, you tell me this, and I agree, and then you fire me for saying it?”

“A sensible question,” says Lautrec. “But no. I’m simply laying your cards on the table, so to speak.”

“Shouldn’t you be laying your own cards on the table?”

“For you? No.” Kit’s mouth is dry at his dismissive tone, and he shifts his legs together under the table. “Christopher, your job is very easy. Everyone’s job is very easy. Work on whatever you like once your work is completed for the day — bring your personal laptop, if you like. Write fanfiction, play League of Legends, work on essays that might contribute toward a future PhD. I really couldn’t give the slightest fuck.”

“You invited me to dinner to tell me that?”

The old man’s tone is withering. “Where was I supposed to tell you? At the water cooler?”

“But — Why?”

“It saves you the anxiety of worrying someone’s looking over your shoulder. We perform the bare minimum needed of us in our positions, and in return, we take home our pay. The building we work in is no temple to meritocracy, and even if it were, I would not deign to be its priest.”

“Why the fuck are you telling me this?”

Lautrec arches one greying eyebrow.

“I — Sorry, I didn’t mean to say, I meant — ”

“It doesn’t matter if you curse, Christopher, this is a restaurant.”

“I just mean — Do you tell everyone this?”

“Everyone who seems intelligent enough to take my advice sensibly. Keep up the appearance of working, continue to complete the work allotted you, and you ought be fine to continue onward. Were you a less able employee you wouldn’t be so on top of your work — were you adept at the work but in possession of less restraint, I would simply leave you to flounder, lest you take my advice to the nth degree and lose your position.”

“Is this whole thing so you can fuck me?” His voice is quieter as it comes out of his mouth, and Lautrec doesn’t answer right away because the waiter has come along with a bunch of plates.

Kit can’t tear his eyes away as he begins to take thing off of the tray and lay them out between them: a basket of bread cut into small pieces; a plate of chips that are shining and glistening fresh from the fryer; a dish of what look like leaves rolled up into tubes; some kind of tentacle that’s been cut up into little pieces so that you can see the contrast between the white flesh in the middle and the purple on the outside and the tiny little suckers, swimming in some kind of juice; a terracotta oven dish of white cheese with some vegetables around it; a dish of little white pieces of chicken that smells lemony as it passes by his nose.

“Ef charisto,” he tells the waiter, and then something else in rapid Greek that makes the waiter nod and laugh.

Only after he walks away does Lautrec say, “None of my advice is contingent on our having sex.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It isn’t, is it?” There’s the slightest curve to the old man’s lip after it comes out of his mouth, the barest smirk, and Kit suddenly feels more heat start to pool between his legs, is grateful that his thighs are already pressed together and his cock doesn’t have that far to go.

“I get it,” mutters Kit, finally taking up his beer and sipping at it. It’s good. “Take me out, tell me all this stuff about work. And then you can turn it around later like it’s me fucking about at work that makes me worth firing, not because I refused to fuck you or whatever.”

“I might point out, young man, that you haven’t yet refused to fuck me,” says Lautrec, and Kit feels a thrill run up his spine. “But let’s put those thoughts aside for now, hm? Eat.”

“Put aside thoughts of what? Workplace harassment?”

“Precisely,” says Lautrec, and picks up a piece of bread.

For a minute or two, they sit in silence, Kit holding his beer in his hand and feeling the coolness of the smooth glass under his thumb and fingertips, Lautrec swiping up some of the melted cheese onto some bread and taking a delicate bite of it, skewering a bit of tentacle with his fork and eating some, taking a few pieces of the lemon chicken.

“Is that squid?” asks Kit.

“It’s octopus,” says Lautrec. “It’s been marinated in oil and vinegar. Try it: the meat is soft.”

Kit’s never tried octopus before, hasn’t tried squid either, just knows that Greek people eat it: he presses the tines of the fork into a disc of the octopus and brings it to his mouth. The texture isn’t what he’d expected, is chewier than he thought — it doesn’t have fibres or strands of meat to it like chicken does, feels more compacted, somehow. The vinegar taste is strong, but it’s not overpowering, a kind of sweetness underneath it, and he chews it for longer than he needs to, savouring it before he swallows.

He exhales, a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and when he looks at Lautrec the old man is sipping at his wine and smiling at him, his eyes on Kit but also distant, like he’s thinking about something, like he’s thinking about him.

Kit’s cock twitches, throbbing with heat where it’s crammed into his fucking suit trousers that he just wishes weren’t so tightly tailored.

“Eat,” says Lautrec, gesturing to the table. “You’re too thin.”

Kit’s cheeks feel hot, but it’s not like he can fucking argue — he is too thin, is a shit cook, forgets to buy groceries, forgets to eat what groceries he does have when he gets really into a research topic. The only reason he’s been eating more now is because Friars actually has a pretty good selection in their canteen, and normally he remembers to buy something or other at the supermarket when he comes out of the train station, because he’s starting to get hungry again by five. It’s annoying, but a routine genuinely is good for him, and he knows that, even though he’d rather not.

“You get off on this or something?” asks Kit.

“Do you?” Lautrec fires back.

Kit skewers a piece of chicken and eats it, letting out a low groan at the way the meat is so tender it just fucking melts in his mouth, all lemon and oregano, tart but sweeter than the vinegary taste that the octopus had come with. He takes up a bit of the bread and tries the cheese next, and the taste of it is great — it’s salty, has a milder taste than cheddar, a different texture.

“It’s made with sheep’s milk, not cow’s,” says Lautrec. “It’s called feta.”

“Not — saganaki?”

“Saganaki calls for a harder cheese — graviera, kefalotyri. It’s fried in a pan, not cooked in an oven, like this.”

“Right,” says Lautrec, and he scoops some more of the feta with his fork, heaping it on his bread with a piece of yellow pepper from the same dish and bringing it up to his mouth. It’s just so fucking good, melted but kind of crumbly at the same time, contrasting with the thick sweetness of the bread’s white, and he chews, swallows.

“Want to try to a dolmade?”

“Sure,” says Kit, scanning the table and trying to figure out exactly what that is — Lautrec chuckles, and puts one expertly manicured finger forward, tapping a perfect pink nail against the dish.

They’re the vine leaf parcels, and Kit spears one of them with his fork, pulling it to his own plate. His hand hovers over the knife, and he looks across at Lautrec for the answer.

“Is it like sushi?” he asks when Lautrec says nothing. “Is it rude if I cut it up?”

“It’s not rude, no,” says Lautrec softly.

“Would you cut it up?”

“No.”

“Okay,” says Kit, and puts the whole thing in his mouth. When he bites into it, feeling the vine leaf between his teeth once they connect, it’s a little hotter than he expected, and he lets out a grunt, opening his lips a bit and awkwardly panting in a breath to try to cool it down. The leaf is full of rice and a kind of herbal mix he wouldn’t be able to list off the ingredients in — there’s more lemon, definitely, and the rice is so soft that he barely even has to chew it, contrasting with the iron-y taste of the vine leaves. He tries a chip next, surprised by the slightly meaty taste that the oregano gives them, alongside the salt and the perfect texture of the potato on the inside of the chip, fluffy where the outside is chewier, has a slight skin.

He eats another few pieces of octopus, some more of the feta and the bread, some tomato and pepper from the feta dish too, spears a chip and pushes that through the feta, eats another dolmade.

Lautrec is eating too, and they don’t really talk for a few minutes as they both eat, picking at each of the plates, drinking their drinks. Kit worries after a while of this that he’s being rude, that he’s acting too greedy, remembers every time he was at the dinner table and his hand was slapped as he reached for something, every time he was told he was meant to be making more conversation, meant to be practising for being an engaging host.

When he opens his mouth to talk, though, Lautrec waves him down, and Kit feels relieved about it, relieved that they can just keep eating, sipping at their drinks, and fuck, but it’s great.

He’d thought when all the plates were initially put in front of them that it’d be a bit much for the two of them, but it’s good, actually, is just about right —

And then the waiter brings more plates.

Kit is just eating the last of the chips when the waiter brings them along, and he stares at each of them as they’re placed down on the tabletop: a little dish of olives, shiny and purple-green; thin green and red chillies that have been stuffed with cheese and meat; more dolmades, more octopus, more chips; a dish of what looks like onion rings in golden batter, but he knows that they’re not onion rings; more bread and a dish of a kind of yellow paste.

“Fava,” says Lautrec, gesturing to the last. “And here, calamari.”

Kit thinks about saying it, that he’s feeling full, that he’s not up to eating anything else, but he wants to fucking try all this stuff, and apart from that, the dolmades taste amazing and so does the octopus.

He tries the fava first, is put off by the texture of it, of the beans crushed into the paste and the way it sticks to his tongue, but the calamari is good, and he’s left chewing through the batter and the squid itself, which is harder, chewier than the octopus, but still fucking good.

The chillies are great too, more sweet than spicy even before he gets to the mix of pork and cheese they’re stuffed with, and then he takes another slice of the octopus, and then another.

Lautrec swaps the fava’s position with the octopus, so that the fava is right next to him and the plate of octopus is at Kit’s elbow, and Kit doesn’t mean to eat the whole plate, but it just tastes so good and is so different to pretty much anything he’s used to.

He eats another dolmade even though just chewing on it is kind of a struggle, working his teeth through the rice and the vine leaf, because he knows he’s full, can feel his stomach starting to protest with each mouthful he puts between his lips.

He swallows, and it’s tough, but he spears another piece of octopus, chews on it for longer than he needs to again, just tastes it before he swallows.

“Try a little more bread, why don’t you?” presses Lautrec, pushing the basket toward him. “Have the last of the feta.”

Kit thinks about saying it, about saying that he doesn’t think he can eat anything else, but there’s something about the way that Lautrec is looking at him, something about the darkness in his eyes, that makes Kit pick up the bread and smear up the last of the feta.

It’s crumblier now that it’s not as hot, no longer melted so much, but it tastes good, and he feels it melt in his mouth just like the white of the bread before he chews, swallows.

He feels so full he might fucking overflow with it, nausea threatening on the horizon.

“Have the last of the octopus, too,” says Lautrec. “Don’t let it go to waste.”

“I’m full.”

“You can manage just a few more pieces, can’t you?” presses Lautrec, raising his eyebrows slightly, and Kit’s hand trembles where he holds the fork above the dish. “There’s no sense leaving it.”

“Fuck,” whispers Kit, but he puts his fork through a piece of tentacle, through a second, and he pops both of them into his mouth at once, chewing on them as vigorously as he can. One of the pieces is from toward the end of the tentacle, and it’s chewier, all the smaller suckers with a different texture than one of the bigger ones.

“And the rest,” says Lautrec as he swallows.

Kit passes the last of the meal in a kind of dizzy haze, but he knows he eats more than he’s probably ever eaten in his fucking life in one sitting — the peppers are finished off, the octopus, the calamari, the bread basket empty.

The only stuff still left on the table is half the olives and about a quarter left of the fava — every other dish and plate is fucking empty.

“Room for dessert?” asks Lautrec, and Kit almost whimpers as he shakes his head no. “Next time, maybe.”

Kit feels a little fucking dizzy as they walk out of the restaurant, his steps slow and stunted, and he’s meant to go for his bus, but he doesn’t make it; Lautrec’s hand slides up and under his elbow, holding him gently under the arm, and leads him toward the car park.

“I’ll drive you home,” he says. “Save you the trouble of — Did you walk?”

“Got the bus,” murmurs Kit, and he leans into Lautrec’s hand, feels the heat of his palm and curl of his fingers, which are strong. “I feel like I’m gonna burst.”

“You won’t,” replies Lautrec, and a few minutes later, Kit is being eased back into Lautrec’s fancy fucking Mercedes, the leather seats cool and calming under his palms, his back. Lautrec’s hand comes to Kit’s belly, pressing slightly on it, and Kit whines at how the flesh feels fucking taut under his shirt, at how warm Lautrec’s fingers are. “I think I can allow you some relief,” says the old man, and flicks open the button on Kit’s jeans.

He heaves in a gasp of relief at the sudden loss of pressure, his gut no longer crammed into the waistband, and there’s a little more relief as Lautrec pulls down his zipper.

It’s not as though he’s big in the middle like a snake after eating a rat, but his stomach is so full that it is rounded out just slightly, feels hard and packed full as Lautrec slips his fingers under the hem of his shirt and slides his fingertips over the skin, presses down.

“Ungh,” Kit moans, his head tipping back. “Mr Lautrec, please — ”

“You’ve been so obedient this evening, haven’t you?” he asks in a quiet purr, leaning in so that Kit can smell his expensive cologne, feel the seat depress as Lautrec sets his knees either side of him. “Have you enjoyed yourself, Christopher? Enjoyed your meal?”

“Yeah,” Kit says breathlessly, “yeah, it was good, it was good — ”

Lautrec’s hand slides down to grip his cock through his boxers, and Kit moans, tipping his hips up and into his hand, doing his best to grind into Lautrec’s palm. His cock is already getting hard again even though the position puts pressure on his aching stomach, makes him feel too full and just slightly sick, and then Lautrec is kissing him, their lips pressing against one another.

Kit feels clumsy and stupid and too slow, but he doesn’t mind feeling stupid when Lautrec has eased his hand under his waistband to grip the shaft of his cock properly, sliding his fist down the length of Kit’s cock.

“Please,” Kit whimpers, and Lautrec laughs against his mouth, squeezing tighter. Kit’s hips jerk without his permission, and it’s horrible, terrible, because thrusting up and into his hand means that Lautrec’s fist is pressing against his swollen belly. “Mr — Mr Lautrec — ”

“This is a good-sized cock you’ve got here, young man,” says Lautrec, his hand twisting as he keeps it moving up and down, and it’s tight, just the perfect fucking grip. “I’ve treated you to a pleasant dinner, and now I’m going to drive you home. You can treat me in return, can’t you? Settle back like a good boy and let me ride you?”

“Sir — ” Kit hisses.

“I think you can,” Lautrec says, and then kisses him again.

Kit’s head is spinning. The fucking world is spinning.

His hand keeps moving up and down, and all Kit can think about is Lautrec, about his mouth against Kit’s, his hand on Kit’s cock, and his cock is jerking, his balls tightening up, pressure building in him —

And then with Lautrec’s other hand, he presses fiercely on the surface of Kit’s belly, and the sudden cramping pain makes him yelp as he comes, his cock pulsing between them. He can’t help the way he fucking squirms with the overstimulation of it, of Lautrec’s hand still sliding up and down his cock, his hips jumping, jerking.

When Lautrec finally releases him, Kit flops back against the seats and looks with dismay at the come that’s spurted over his cardigan, his shirt, over Lautrec’s hand.

“Have you roommates?” asks Lautrec.

“Yeah,” mumbles Kit.

“I’ll bring you back to mine, then, shall I?”

Kit stares at him, at the look on Lautrec’s face, hungry, commanding. Dumbly, he nods.

“Good boy,” says Lautrec, and fuck, but that makes his spent cock twitch even as Lautrec pulls back and gets into the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition and pulling out from the space.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“That’s right,” says Lautrec, so much condescension dripping from the words that it makes Kit’s cock ache. “I’m sure I’ve got an appropriate dessert for you at home, if you can find some room for it.”

Kit feels a genuine, sudden twinge of fear, and he feels it primarily in his cock.

“Good boy,” says Lautrec again, and Kit closes his eyes as they keep driving.

FIN.