Product Testing

Bernard Wilcox had not expected the twilight of his career to look like this.

For thirty years he had been a man of tools—respectable tools. He was tall but going soft around the middle, with thinning brown hair that refused to lie flat and a permanent frown line carved above his spectacles. Colleagues called him “Old Torque,” partly for his obsession with correct ratios, partly because he gripped clipboards as if they were lifebuoys.

He thought of himself as steady, reliable, faintly dull—qualities he assumed Stamford & Sons prized.

But the company directors had other ideas.

"The power tool market has plateaued," the chairman declared that grim Monday, his double chin settling comfortably on his waistcoat. "The pandemic has left people isolated, desperate for... connection." He paused, fingers forming a steeple. "Adapt or die, gentlemen. The future lies in what we're calling 'personal lifestyle enhancement devices.'"

Silence smothered the conference room. "Lifestyle products" lingered in the air like burnt toast. On the projection screen, familiar tools had undergone disturbing metamorphoses—drill bits curved where they should be straight, handles bulged in anatomically suggestive places. Around the table, middle-aged men in identical charcoal suits tugged at suddenly restrictive collars. Bernard leaned forward, wiping condensation from his glasses to better see the glossy catalog. These weren't implements for hanging shelves or fixing faucets. They were designed for... bedroom applications. A particularly alarming device resembled nothing so much as a drain snake with ambitions beyond plumbing. Stamford & Sons, had diversified from home construction to the business of pleasuring lonely men.

At fifty-three, Bernard was promoted—if that was the word—to Quality Control Manager for this new line of “personal lifestyle implements.”

Bernard's "promotion" came with an immediate introduction to the testing facilities—a sterile observation room where executives gathered before a large window. On the other side: a sparse white chamber containing only a cot and one of those unsettling devices from the presentation.

When Cyril Dapple shuffled in, Bernard nearly choked. He knew Cyril from Accounting—a plump, grandfatherly figure with wispy white hair forming a halo around his pink scalp. The man perpetually wore cardigans in defiance of seasons and distributed custard creams from his pockets with the solemnity of communion wafers.

"Mr. Dapple is our premier product evaluator," the managing director announced proudly, "alongside his regular auditing duties."

Bernard pressed against the glass as Cyril approached the device, humming as if preparing to prune roses. "My God, he's not going to—"

"Every item undergoes rigorous assessment," the Leeds manager murmured, stirring his coffee with bureaucratic indifference.

Cyril Dapple, with the grace of a man accustomed to his own company, began to disrobe with the same enthusiasm he might reserve for peeling an orange at his desk. His clothes fell away to reveal a body that had long ago made peace with gravity. His belly rolled over his belt, his skin was the shade of uncooked pastry dough. He picked up the device, which looked more like a twisted science experiment than something intended for pleasure, and examined it with the meticulousness of a librarian checking in a rare book. The contraption was a series of clear, flexible tubes that were to be placed around his penis and mouth, creating a vacuum seal to enhance stimulation.

Bernard watched, horrified and fascinated, as Cyril secured the device in place. It took a few moments of fumbling and adjusting, but once the tubes were snug, Cyril started to hum a tune that was vaguely familiar—perhaps an old show tune, or the theme from a sitcom that had aired before either of them had been born. The sight of the usually buttoned-up accountant with this alien apparatus strapped to his face was so surreal that it was almost comical.

The project manager's voice crackled over the intercom, "Mr. Dapple, can you confirm that the product is operating effectively?"

Cyril paused in his humming, and with surprising agility, unclipped the tube from his mouth. "All working splendidly, sir," he said, his voice muffled but clear. He took a sip of water from a plastic cup on a stainless steel tray beside the cot and replaced the tube, resuming his hum with renewed vigor.

The device began to whir softly, the suction effect palpable through the glass. Cyril's eyes widened slightly, and his cheeks flushed a shade pinker than usual. It was a sight that should have been private, but here it was, being observed in the stark light of the testing lab.

As the minutes ticked by, the tension in the observation room grew thicker than the silence. The executives glanced at each other, shifting in their seats, all except for the Leeds manager, who sipped his coffee with a disturbingly detached air.

Cyril's body tensed, his hum turned into a muffled groan, and through the tubes, his climax shot into his mouth. The device did exactly what it was supposed to do, allowing him to swallow his own release with the same nonchalance with which he would swallow a spoonful of a child’s medicine to prove it wasn't bitter.

The executives nodded approvingly. The Leeds manager set down his coffee and said, "Good show, Dapple. Now, let's get the data."

Bernard clutched his clipboard like a shield. “I used to check hammers.”

Bernard found himself clutching his clipboard in the testing room's aftermath, tasked with debriefing Cyril on the "Spunktube 200." The accountant was already removing the apparatus, his movements efficient and untroubled.

"On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the comfort level?" Bernard asked, pen hovering above his form, eyes fixed firmly on his paperwork.

"Seven," Cyril replied, reaching for his shirt. "Though the strap left a mark." He gestured to a red indentation across his hip. "Perhaps something more elastic for gentlemen of substance?" He chuckled, a warm, tea-kettle sound that Bernard dutifully recorded.

As Cyril buttoned his trousers, Bernard's professional veneer cracked.

"Mr. Dapple," he ventured, voice tight as a violin string. "Do you... derive satisfaction from this work?"

Cyril paused, his smile softening. "It's a welcome diversion from spreadsheets." He adjusted his cardigan. "This line of work reveals things—about one's body, one's... essence. You might discover the same, Mr. Wilcox." The wink that followed was gentle, almost paternal.

Bernard's throat constricted. "I'll note your feedback accordingly."

"Splendid." Cyril's momentary candor vanished behind his usual affability. "Must dash—Darryl's still battling the accounting software."

And this became Bernard’s new routine. He wrote detailed reports on the safety and effectiveness of sex toys, and every few weeks he would watch Cyril test the latest contraptions.

Each morning Cyril arrived in his sensible cardigan, thermos of Earl Grey tucked under one arm, biscuits in his pocket. Then, with the mild efficiency of a man preparing for a bath, he would disrobe and subject himself to increasingly outlandish devices.

The Throb-O-Matic resembled nothing so much as a carnival prize gone horribly wrong—all primary colors and unexpected protrusions—that wrenched startled, birdlike sounds from Cyril’s throat.

The Pulsing Pleasure Plunger was worse: an elaborate system of counterweights and pneumatic tubes that turned Cyril’s usually placid features into a silent film reel of shock, revelation, and—at last—resigned bliss. After each ordeal, he would calmly dress, sip from a paper cup, and deliver his assessment with the dispassion of an accountant reviewing a quarterly budget.

But the Velvet Vortex proved pivotal.

A writhing bouquet of fabric-sheathed appendages, it attached itself to Cyril with alarming enthusiasm. The tentacles pulsed and undulated against his pale torso until his eyes fluttered closed and his mouth formed a perfect “O” of surprise. Even the Leeds manager, normally carved from granite, allowed a tiny smile.

Then came the snap. A hidden spring inside the mechanism slipped its housing with a metallic shriek. One of the appendages lashed sideways, striking Cyril hard across the ribs. He gave a sharp cry and crumpled, cardigan and all, to the floor.

The managers scattered like pigeons. Bernard, clipboard abandoned, was the first at Cyril’s side.

“Dapple! Don’t you dare close your eyes. Blast it, man, breathe!” Bernard barked, kneeling awkwardly, one hand hovering near Cyril’s shoulder as if afraid to touch.

“I’m…all right,” Cyril wheezed, though his face had gone an alarming shade of grey.

“You are manifestly not all right. You’ve been walloped by a glorified octopus,” Bernard said, voice trembling with more emotion than he intended.

An ambulance was called; Cyril was whisked away. Bernard spent the rest of the afternoon writing incident reports with shaking hands, his usual precise handwriting wobbling into a near-illegible scrawl.

Cyril’s recovery took several weeks. Bernard visited at first out of duty—“someone must ensure the company’s liability is contained”—but soon the visits became habit. He found himself bringing flowers (which he justified as “oxygenating the patient’s room”), and carefully pouring out tea from Cyril’s thermos when his hands were too unsteady.

Cyril would beam from his hospital bed. “You’re kind, Mr. Wilcox. I’m not used to being fussed over.”

“Nonsense,” Bernard said briskly, adjusting the pillow with unnecessary vigor. “Any colleague would do the same.”

But when Cyril drifted to sleep, Bernard lingered. Watching the soft rise and fall of his chest, the pale curls on his temples, Bernard felt a warmth stir in him that was altogether unfamiliar. It frightened him more than the Velvet Vortex.

Each time it surfaced, he brushed it aside, turning his thought to what was on television that night.

And yet, as he walked home alone at night, the echo of Cyril’s grateful smile followed him like a shadow.

Cyril, resilient as ever, eventually returned to his duties at Stamford & Sons. A few cracked ribs and a dented sense of invincibility hadn’t dimmed his cheer; if anything, the ordeal gave him new material for small talk. “When I was walloped by the Velvet Vortex,” he’d begin, producing his thermos of Earl Grey, as though referring to a mild head cold.

Bernard, however, had not emerged unscathed. The image of Cyril, pale and fragile in that hospital bed, lingered with him. He told himself it was managerial concern, nothing more, and buried the thought beneath safety reports and torque calculations.

It was on a damp Tuesday morning that Bernard’s telephone rang.

“Wilcox speaking.”

The clipped voice of Mr. Graves, Head of Innovations, rasped down the line. “Wilcox, we have a problem. The new assistant scheduled to partner Mr. Dapple in today’s trial has called off sick.”

Bernard felt a knot form in his stomach. “Can’t the test be rescheduled?”

“No.” Graves’ tone was granite. “The manufacturers will be in the observation room. They expect results. They expect to see the product used.”

Bernard adjusted his spectacles nervously. “And the product in question?”

“A consumable.” There was the faintest pause. “An edible. Something we’ve agreed to distribute under the Stamford & Sons umbrella. They call it—” a rustle of papers “—‘The Aphrodisiac Confection Experience.’”

Bernard pinched the bridge of his nose. “Good heavens.”

Graves pressed on. “Mr. Dapple cannot demonstrate alone. He requires a partner—find someone. Even if that someone is you.”

The line went dead.

Bernard spent the next hour on the telephone, voice pitched higher than usual, calling every agency, every department, every idle soul in the building. “Yes, anyone will do—porter, secretary, janitor—just so long as he can sit in a chair and lick, er, consume product for thirty minutes.” Each call ended the same: a polite refusal or outright laughter before the receiver clicked dead.

By eleven o’clock his shirt collar was wilted with sweat. A description of the product was sent over: “The Aphrodisiac Confection Experience: Non-Dairy, Fully Ethical, Utterly Indulgent” The product was a non dairy cream in different flavors designed to be eaten off the body and that it was safe in every orifice.

Bernard groaned.

Mr. Graves stood near the doorway, arms crossed, a look of judicial severity etched upon his face.

“Mr. Wilcox,” Graves said, voice like gravel dragged across metal. “You will be Mr. Dapple’s partner in this demonstration. Unless you can conjure another soul in the next ten seconds, this duty falls to you.”

Bernard opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“Good.” Graves nodded curtly. “Proceed.”

His throat bobbed. Perhaps—just perhaps—it would prove a mere taste test. Dip a spoon, dab a finger, offer a thoughtful nod. Nothing more. He could still salvage his dignity in front of his colleagues.

As he approached the demonstration room, Bernard overheard one of the manufacturers speaking in hushed tones with a regional manager. "The confection must elicit a fully sexual response," the man said, tapping his clipboard for emphasis. "Otherwise, what's the point?" Bernard froze mid-step, his last hopes evaporating like morning dew. There would be no dignified sampling today. He was, as they say in the testing department, completely and utterly committed.

Bernard lingered in the corridor, clutching his clipboard like a shield. The frosted glass ahead bore the stenciled words Testing Suite B. From within came the faint sound of humming—cheerful, tuneless, and unmistakably Cyril’s.

When Bernard pushed open the door, Cyril looked up from a folding chair, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, cardigan buttoned to the throat. He beamed.

“Mr. Wilcox! Should you be in the testing room?” Cyril’s eyes twinkled. “I’m waiting for my partner.”

The words hung in the air. Bernard’s silence was answer enough. The smile faltered, then disappeared altogether. Cyril straightened, studying Bernard’s blanched face.

“Oh,” he said softly. “You’re my partner.”

For the first time in all their years of absurd trials, his tone carried no jest, no whimsical detachment. Only a steady seriousness that made Bernard’s chest tighten.

“We need to wash up beforehand,” Cyril added after a pause. “It’s going to be… a messy experience.”

The suggestion was so practical, so understated, that Bernard simply nodded. The two men stepped into the adjoining washroom. Steam rose from the tiled stalls, curling around the harsh bulbs above. They undressed in silence, folding their clothes over hooks with nervous precision. Bernard fumbled with his cufflinks, fingers clammy.

Cyril, half-naked and pale as dough, glanced over with a small grin. “A couple more years and you’ll be my size,” he said, patting his round belly. The line was delivered like a joke, but his eyes searched Bernard’s, as though measuring how far humor might carry them through this.

Bernard let out a choked laugh—half relief, half terror.

The hot water sluiced over them, rinsing away the ordinary dust of the day and, with it, any remaining illusions of detachment. Bernard caught himself watching the way rivulets traced down Cyril’s back, pooling in the dimples above his hips. He looked quickly away, scolding himself.

When they emerged, damp towels wrapped around their middles, the weight of the moment pressed in again. They left the washroom and stood side by side before the testing room door. Beyond it waited the manufacturers, Graves’ scowl, and a cream designed to strip away every layer of propriety.

Cyril’s hand brushed Bernard’s arm. He stopped him just before the threshold, turning with a gravity Bernard had never seen in him before.

“It means the world to me that you were picked for this,” Cyril said quietly.

The words settled deep, warming Bernard’s chest in a way that frightened him more than the trial itself. He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came.

Together, they pushed the door open and stepped into the room—naked, exposed, and with no turning back.

"Well, well, Wilcox! Quite the company man after all!" came a snicker through the intercom.

Cyril leaned close, his breath warm against Bernard's ear. "Just follow me," he whispered, his fingertips grazing Bernard's shoulder blade.

The testing table gleamed under bright lights, jars of cream arranged in neat rows—Citrus Sensation, Berry Blush, Tropical Tease, and Trail Mix—their labels garish against the sterile white.

Mr. Graves's voice crackled overhead: "Gentlemen, apply the product to each other's skin, then sample. Note flavor intensity, longevity, and... arousal factors. Wilcox, comprehensive report on my desk tomorrow morning."

"Understood, sir," Bernard replied, his voice a thread of its usual self.

Bernard’s muscles tensed the instant the cool cream touched his skin. Cyril’s hands—steady, almost clinical—spread the pale substance across his back in broad strokes. The harsh fluorescents glared overhead, but somehow the room felt dimmer, closer, as if the walls themselves leaned in to watch.

Bernard tried to steady himself with the clipboard, the familiar columns of numbers and margins. But the moment Cyril bent closer, breath warm and smelling faintly of Earl Grey and shortbread, all thoughts of metrics dissolved.

The first flick of Cyril’s tongue against the cream startled him so deeply he nearly dropped the board. The sound he made was embarrassingly close to a whimper. Cyril did not falter—he leaned in, tongue tracing the ridge of Bernard’s spine, every lick deliberate, each one a question that demanded no answer.

A shiver coursed down Bernard’s legs, leaving his knees weak. Their breaths grew ragged, the air charged with the small, wet sounds of Cyril’s mouth at work. For the first time in years, Bernard wasn’t thinking of duty or appearances—he was feeling, raw and unmediated.

“Mr. Dapple, report your impressions,” the intercom crackled, slicing the hush.

Cyril lifted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. With a slow, sweeping lick at the base of Bernard’s neck, he murmured: “Sweet, smooth… surprisingly potent.”

No laughter came from the observers behind the glass. Only silence, the kind that prickled Bernard’s skin worse than any jeer. And still Cyril continued, tongue circling lower, teeth grazing, the movements bordering on affectionate rather than procedural.

Bernard’s hand shook as he reached for the next jar, its label plain: Tropical Cream. He peeled it open, the scent filling the room with a candied sweetness. His eyes flicked to Cyril’s chest—pale, soft, dotted with tufts of hair. Cyril gave a tiny nod, an unspoken invitation.

With trembling fingers, Bernard smeared the cream across Cyril’s sternum, then down toward his belly. Goosebumps rose instantly. Cyril closed his eyes, head tipping back, exhaling with a sigh that made Bernard’s stomach clench.

And then Bernard bent. His tongue brushed cream from Cyril’s chest, tentative at first, then greedier, circling a nipple and coaxing from Cyril a gasp that was half-laugh, half-moan.

Cyril’s voice, usually so composed, trembled. “Quite… thorough testing.”

The intercom remained silent this time. Bernard imagined the managers behind the glass, pens frozen midair, watching the Quality Control Manager and the veteran tester turn an official procedure into something indecent.

The next jar, Citrus Cream, was opened by Cyril himself. With a sly glance, he dabbed a generous smear under his arm. Bernard froze, blinking in disbelief—surely not there. But Cyril raised his brows as if daring him.

Swallowing hard, Bernard leaned in. His tongue slid into the warm fold, tasting salt and citrus in equal measure. Cyril’s hands gripped the table edge, knuckles white, as a low, startled moan escaped him. Bernard’s pulse thundered; his lips lingered longer than any protocol could justify. Bernard finished, and Cyril jerked with a startled laugh. “No one’s ever done that before. Not, er, voluntarily.” The words vibrated low and intimate, like a shared joke muttered during a stakeout.

Bernard risked a glance at the glass wall, expecting scowls, cameras, HR nightmares. But all he saw was his own reflection—a sixty-kilo actuary, dripping sweat, on his knees beside a man whose white hair gleamed like soap against the industrial lighting. Bernard felt foolish, exposed; and then, sharply, he didn’t.

He straightened, catching Cyril’s gaze. For once, Cyril wasn’t smiling. He looked as if Bernard had just handed him a present wrapped in newspaper, something rare and entirely undeserved.

Bernard took the next jar—Berry Blush, as the label had it—and upended half its contents onto Cyril’s chest. His palms, slick and trembling, spread the cream over the unfamiliar surface: over the ample flesh of his breasts , into the soft, yielding valley between. The texture was at once clinical and obscene. Bernard’s hands shook with the force of his own curiosity.

He glanced at Cyril’s face for permission—Cyril nodded, bracing himself against the table’s edge. Bernard leaned in and began to lick, and found the taste far less artificial than expected. A sparkly tang, sweet and a touch bitter, the sugar granules rough on his tongue. He lapped at the edge of Cyril’s nipple, catching a droplet before it ran down, conscious all the while of his own heart scrabbling inside his chest. He flicked the tip, circled it, then let his teeth graze ever-so-lightly, and heard—a sound, a true sound—Cyril’s breath hitch, then break into a sigh.

Bernard allowed himself a slow, deliberate lick across the under-curve of Cyril’s breast, chasing stray streaks of Berry Blush down the gentle slope to where flesh folded into belly. The towel clinging to Bernard’s hips was growing less adequate with every moment. He tried not to notice. He forced himself to focus only on his work, hands and mouth moving precisely, professionally, until Cyril gave a trembling laugh and clutched at Bernard’s wrist.

“Steady on, Wilcox,” Cyril whispered. He was sweating—thin dew on his upper lip, a fog on his glasses.

“We are eager to know about the Trail Mix” the intercom piped up.

Bernard straightened, the room now noticing his erection

He felt Cyril’s touch on his hip—steady, the way one might handle a skittish animal. Bernard’s legs were trembling, the cheap cotton towel clinging to his thighs like a tattered flag, slipping with every pulse of his heartbeat. He heard Cyril unscrew the Trail Mix lid, a crisp pop, and his own tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His stomach lurched—absurd, to be scared of flavored lubricant, but after decades of spreadsheets and calibrated risk it was a shock to find himself the test subject for something so outrageous.

“Up on the table, Wilcox,” Cyril said, soft but unyielding. The instruction bypassed Bernard’s nerves and landed in his muscles: he climbed onto the vinyl top, hands planted to steady himself. His back arched as Cyril’s palm pressed gently between his shoulder blades, guiding him down until his chest met the chill of the surface. He felt exposed, awkwardly animal, knees bent and backside hiked like bad schoolboy posture. The air on his skin was electric and he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—turn to see what was coming next.

A finger’s width of cold cream landed just above his tailbone, then a slick ribbon traced immediately downwards, splitting him with a line of sugar and peanut. Cyril’s thumb worked the Trail Mix into a warm, sticky film, and then—impossibly—a tongue followed, the tip probing with a certainty that sent Bernard’s face crashing to the table, forehead pressed to the faux-leather as if he needed to hide from the world.

It was not possible to make a dignified sound under these conditions. Something yelped out of him, desperate and sharp, before he could bite down on it. The sensation was so alien—so much more than the clinical, half-hearted encounters of his prior life—that he almost lifted off the table from sheer disbelief. The tongue worked in slow, deliberate circles, chasing every molecule of cream, each pass more thorough than the last. The taste was irrelevant; Bernard couldn’t even bring himself to register peanut, raisin, or honeycomb, just the flooding pressure as something inside him melted.

More cream, deftly applied, then a finger slipped in, quick and confident. Bernard felt his body resisting out of habit, then caving utterly, buckling to the pressure. Cyril murmured praise—a stray “Good man” or “Nearly there”—and Bernard almost wept from the relief of being, for once, precisely where he belonged.

The tongue drove deeper, the suction and licking shockingly precise, leaving Bernard wrung out, panting. His cock, pressed mercilessly to the cool vinyl, shuddered and spilled a thin line of something hot. He didn’t care. The embarrassment was replaced by something so raw and electric there was no room for humiliation, just astonishment that a body could be made to feel at all.

The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Dapple, how is the trail mix flavor,” said Mr. Graves, his voice as flat as a judge handing out citations for public urination.

Cyril didn't stop. He gave one last, deliberate stroke with his tongue, then lifted his head just enough to address the intercom. "The flavor merits a six," he said, voice thick, "but the effectiveness..." He glanced at Bernard's trembling form. "That's clearly a ten." Bernard couldn't speak, caught between mortification at being splayed naked before corporate eyes and the desperate, need for Cyril to continue.

Something hard and hot pressed against Bernard’s creased, sticky rim—blunt, urgent, then yielding, not waiting for slow hospitality. Cyril’s cock slipped inside on a pink wave of peanut, honey, and shame. The lube was almost stinging cold at the edges, but the thickness of Cyril’s shaft hit Bernard’s prostate with a knock that sent spots swimming in his peripheral vision. He gasped—no, he howled, the wordless sound ringing off tile and glass. A voice in his head catalogued the experience: “Maximum penetration, complete exposure,” but the rest of him splintered under the first forceful thrust.

Cyril fucked him with brisk, unyielding little motions, like a man taste-testing jam at the farmer’s market: thorough, mechanical, with no patience for preambles. The cream burned and tingled, leaking down Bernard’s thighs in slow-motion rivulets. Each thrust forced fresh air into Bernard’s lungs while pushing the last fragments of dignity out. He pressed his face to the table, eyes squeezed shut; his mouth opened and something kept pouring out—“Oh my god. Oh my god”—over and over, louder than he’d meant to, until the glass vibrated with it.

Behind the glass, shadowed shapes shifted—maybe leaning in, maybe muttering and scribbling furious notes—but in Bernard’s world there was only the ache of his body splitting and the wet slap-slap of old Cyril rutting with the efficiency of a lifetime’s habit. Cyril’s hands locked around Bernard’s hips, fleshy fingers digging in until Bernard’s flesh bruised, and that made it better, made it real—he could be a thing for once, not just a mind with a mortgaged spine.

Cyril grunted, a sound at once apologetic and desperate. His balls thudded against Bernard’s ass, the slapping rhythm building, and Bernard’s own cock—miraculously still rigid—brushed the vinyl, exuding a little more with every graze. He reached back, wild, needing something to hold, and caught the edge of Cyril’s thigh—sweaty, solid, alive. Bernard could not have said what in all his life had brought him to this, but suddenly it felt less like humiliation and more like being recognized in a crowd, like someone knowing exactly what he was for.

Then Cyril slid an arm around Bernard’s front, anchoring him, clutching him so close Bernard thought their torsos might fuse. His cock rammed in deeper, and Bernard could taste the sound he made—like an old kettle boiling over—as Cyril hit a hidden nerve, a button marked “obliterate.” Bernard’s own orgasm was fast and panicked, not a crescendo but a loss of control. His come spattered the table, hot and thin, before Cyril’s cock wedged so far in Bernard’s vision flickered black.

Cyril’s climax was audible—a wheeze, then a groan like a man gut-punched at the moment of ecstasy. Warmth blossomed deep inside, then smeared out with the next hard thrust. Bernard howled, feeling the rush, then the trickle, then the exhaustion. His arms collapsed, but Cyril caught him just before he sank, cradling Bernard to himself, both of them gasping in the pool of their own heat.

"Thank you, gentlemen." Mr. Graves cleared his throat, his voice carrying a hint of unwilling respect. "Mr. Wilcox, I expect your report on my desk by six." The intercom clicked off. Behind the glass, chairs scraped against the floor as the observers rose and departed with practiced corporate discretion, leaving Bernard and Cyril in a silence broken only by their breathing.

“"Quite the corporate coming-out party, Mr. Wilcox," Cyril said, his voice warm against Bernard's neck as they lay entangled on the vinyl cot.

"Bernard," he corrected, startled by the unfamiliar lightness in his own voice—all the starch and formality wrung out of it.

Cyril's arm settled across his chest. "I wondered if those looks meant something, when you brought me soup after my accident."

"They did. I just couldn't admit it, even to myself." Bernard traced a finger along Cyril's forearm. "Until now."

A smile spread across Cyril's face. "I think I'm rather smitten with you, Bernard."

Their lips met, unhurried this time, deliberate.

"We should clean up," Cyril murmured eventually. "Your report deadline."

"Anything specific you want included?"

“The creams were fine…but next time I think I want to taste you Mr Wilcox….not Berry Blast”