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Paulie never told Mr. Iceberg about this very specific interest of his. He knows that secret is sitting privately in his own very loud thoughts, and nowhere near his boss - er, boyfriend - ah, boyfriend and also boss. Mainly because he can think of nothing except for confessing.
I need- no, I don’t actually need this, I just want- someday, can we pretend-
But it’s not pretend, right now. The press of Iceburg’s hands on his shoulders is heavy and urgent and real, and Paulie’s knees buckle under the force of them. Suddenly he is no longer perched on the edge of the mayor’s desk, no longer shivering at a lean body forcing its way between his sprawled legs and cold hands dipping under his jacket. Now his butt is hitting the floor as Iceburg sits back curtly in his mammoth of a padded desk chair and scoots forward. Paulie has no choice but to scramble backwards, or have his balls crushed by a rapidly approaching chair leg. So under the desk he goes, until his head thunks a polished wood backing and he is encased in darkness.
“Wha-!” he starts. The whole thing happened so quickly, he had no time to ask for an explanation to suddenly being denied touch and shoved down and away.
“Wait,” comes in a low voice above him. Paulie opens his mouth again, lifts a boot to threaten to kick the chair back because he is cramped, dammit, when he hears it. Clicking on tile. Then right after a few beats, a knock on the door that doesn’t wait for an answer before pushing the thing right on open.
“Ah, Kalifa. That must be the latest invoice from our good welding friends in your hands.” His voice projects across the room while still remaining even and calm, and Paulie has no idea how the mayor does it. Personally, Kalifa’s approaching four inch heels, which he can spot sliding their way from a gap under the desk, has a yelp of terror stuck in his throat. She’s gonna see him, or even worse hear him, and-
And Paulie is still hard as diamond in his pants, erection not flagging in the slightest.
Iceburg and Kalifa exchange some more words, which Paulie cannot fully comprehend past his quiet demands for his dick and brain to shut up and calm down. The secret is apparently never discovered though, because those killer black pumps pivot to click back where they came from, and with a quiet close of the door they are alone again.
Iceberg scoots his desk back. “Sorry, I heard her heels coming down the hall,” he starts, mouth twisting in regret. But the corner of his lip is lifting, like he is holding in a laugh at Paulie’s expense. “I didn’t want her to see you like this.”
Paulie’s veins run hot, arousal flaming through his body at the other man’s words. He coughs, to get the moan wanting to build out of his throat, and crosses his arms, feigning anger. If his face is as burning red as it feels, then the show of frustration undoubtedly doesn’t work. “So you had to manhandle me?”
The smirk of those painted lips finally emerges. “If it means keeping how good you look wearing my lipstick all to myself, then yes.”
Paulie’s dick twitches hard at that, hands clenching tight on his forearms. His lowly self, branded as Mr. Iceburg’s property with a smeared kiss of purple across his mouth… the thought pushes all of the air from his lungs, transforms it into a groan of want and agony. His tongue peeks out and tastes the wax of lipstick, and he groans again.
Iceburg’s eyes flit up and down Paulie’s body, while Paulie struggles to keep his open, to not further sprawl on the floor and beg for. For anything.
They’re quiet for a while. As quiet as Paulie can manage, at least, even though he is panting like a racehorse in reaction to being leaned over, intimidated, kept shadowed and sheltered; but Iceburg is breathing heavily through his nose, searching for some sort of answer in Paulie’s crossed arms and heaving chest and shaking, bent legs. Or looking for restraint.
“...Do you like this, Paulie?” Iceburg asks.
Paulie doesn’t give a verbal answer. But probably the widening of his mouth to let another gurgling moan escape, the sideways tilt of his head in invitation, is answer enough.
Mr. Iceburg doesn’t quite answer either. Just scoots the chair closer to his desk again, eyebrow quirked as he boxes the other man in. Questioning what will happen, maybe, if he restricts Paulie further.
What happens, is that the chair comes in at an angle this time, and Paulie has no choice but to squawk in offense as his delicates are nearly attacked again. His hands jump to brace himself on the bit of desk behind his head, and his left leg flies up, boot gaining purchase on the underside of the desk and lifting his hips enough to avoid certain doom. “Hey!” Paulie shouts. It only takes a split second after for all indignation to die, and for arousal to burst so hot inside of him that his idiotic brain is surely melting out of his cherry red ears.
With one leg up, and the other sprawled out to the side, there’s nothing to conceal his now throbbing dick, dying for attention behind the zipper of his pants.
Iceburg’s mouth, still covered in an even layer of purple lipstick despite marking Paulie as his own, drops open in shock.
There’s a knock at the door.
They both jolt, and their eyes meet, and in that span of two seconds before Iceburg tells his guest to enter, they search each other. They haven’t been dating for very long, but long years of working together, of watching each other in secret, has led to an easy understanding of personalities and demeanors, conscious and unconscious demands and emotions quickly interpreted and understood.
A mouth opens wider, quietly. Brows furrow. Hands flinch, but do not act to move away from their bracing position. I don’t want you to stop.
Raised brows. Lips tightening for a moment, sure. I have you.
Then the chair scoots up to fully conceal Paulie, and Iceburg’s perfect shining shoes sit flat on the floor right under Paulie’s lifted ass, and the mayor calls, “Enter.”
The door opens, and a greeting is called out, and Paulie’s heart races so hard in the cavern of his chest that he cannot believe the other two don’t feel its vibrations through the floor.
Paulie does not catch a single word the stranger on the other side of the room says. Not even his boss’ voice fully filters into his mind. Truly all he hears is the rushing of his own blood, pumping at a vicious rate, and all he feels is the strain of every last muscle in his body holding himself still, all while he is ignored under the desk.
No. Not ignored. A pen is scratching across paper somewhere above him along with chatter, but Iceburg’s knee is gently knocking into the ticklish back of his calf. An acknowledgement, or maybe a promise for later, a way to say hold on a little longer, darling.
Paulie still hasn’t fully said outright the truth of his desires, in this context. That he doesn’t actually need to hold on and wait for future relief, that somehow the sick fantasy of being crammed under Mr. Iceburg’s desk, kept warm and secret while men and women all sick with longing for his boyfriend flit in and out of the door, is actually coming true. Usually said fantasy involves Paulie in a different position, hands and knees preferred, with his chin resting on a bit of chair while he gently mouths at his boss’ zipper front, just enough distraction to pull Mr. Iceburg’s focus but not enough to give them away. But this vulnerable, aching wait is nice too, maybe even better for its realness.
He’s lightly licking his lips, adding the taste of lipstick and its residual sticky feeling to the daydream, imagining a little mark of purple on the front of a covered bulge, when Mr. Iceburg shifts. His weight goes to his left hip, and his right foot rises-
The sharp point of a dress shoe harshly runs along the underside of Paulie’s stiff erection as the other man crosses his legs.
Paulie hears a noise, some sort of animal on the brink of doom, and only realizes it's him when his arching back falls down again to the tile floor, traitorous mouth slamming shut. His head is fuzzy cotton lit aflame. The only clear sensation in his body is the almost painful way his dick throbs to release a spurt of precome.
“What the hell-” the stranger Paulie heard earlier starts yelling.
“Oh no worries,” Mr. Iceburg interrupts. His voice is honey smooth, perfectly controlled and calm. His right foot, dangling like a toy to tempt a cat into play, jiggles with impatience and agitation above Paulie’s head. “Tyrannosaurus is in quite the mood today. I’ve cut down on his snacking, for his health you see, and he’s rather pissed about it.” A good lie, and easy to keep up with, considering the mouse is currently tucked away in a small bed within a cabinet, far from where his owner and Paulie had previously been frotting against one another.
“Poor thing,” the stranger titters. “If you need to-”
Paulie isn’t sure what the stranger offers, because Mr. Iceburg uncrosses his legs. Slowly. The shoe descends. Carefully, the tip of it pointed up, surely straining his boss’ ankle. The heel comes first, and it bumps into the meat of Paulie’s thigh, and stays there.
Another foot jiggle. Tired of waiting.
He always imagined this scenario, under the desk, as a chance to please Mr. Iceburg, to selfishly have a slow, quiet taste of him, but this is just as good, maybe. Just as delicious.
One of Paulie’s hands shoots up to grab an ankle, the friction of his callouses against the silk of socks ruinous and good, and drags that shoe down onto his crotch.
“Only if you’re - ahem - you’re sure the matter can wait.” That soft, professional voice briefly falls to pieces when they line up, heel to aching balls, the hidden tip of cock trapped beneath the tapered end of leather. Paulie tugs harder, and the pressure increases, and he isn’t making any noise but he sure is about to if Mr. Iceburg shoves his foot down by even a millimeter.
“Let’s see what times we have available next week.” Mr. Iceburg’s voice is coming out higher now. Paulie wishes he could see the front of his pants better, to catch the throbbing erection matching his own, but the other man is sitting too far back in his seat, all proper in his posture even now. He needs to stay secret, Mr. Iceburg his, all his down here in the dark. But Paulie wants more.
His fingers drift up, under the hem of blue pants. Cool silk greets his fingertips, but Paulie knows what prize he seeks. The first time their pants had come off, he had been entranced by the bands, the way they emphasized the lean muscle of his lover’s calves. The socks and their garters are hiding skin from him, but Paulie is persistent. And also, perhaps, he cannot stop, regardless of the barriers in his way.
When one of his blunt nails finds an exposed bit of calf, Mr. Iceburg jolts. “Wednesday is the ne-e-next appointment we have.” The stutter is subtle, but there. From someone as cool and tightly reined in as Mr. Iceburg, it’s the equivalent of begging on desperate hands and knees for more. Paulie smooths a fingertip, back and forth, to feel the heat of skin.
“Yes, Kalifa will set you up at the front- see you then-” The door closes, and there’s a double harsh bang like two fists slamming the desk, and Mr. Iceburg moans, “Ah, Paulie.”
Paulie thinks he must be responding, either with words or cries of his own, because his throat is burning, dry and overused. Or maybe that’s from the anticipation of untying the shoe he’s holding against his dick, uncaring of any potential discomfort.
“Your- it’s- can’t reach-” The laces are flying in one hand, while the other scrabbles awkwardly under a tight pant leg for more skin access.
“Allow me,” says Iceburg’s voice, and two long fingered hands come down from atop the desk to delicately roll up his blue pants leg. Paulie’s boot thunks in an aborted kick on the desk’s underside as he loudly grunts, “fuck,” at the calf, fully exposed except for it’s strong sock garter frames.
Paulie gets his hand under the garter’s band to wrap his fingers fully around the circumference of muscle and pale skin and soft dark hairs, and the shoe flies off.
“I didn’t know you liked this sort of thing,” Mr. Iceburg murmurs. His voice sounds muffled, like some of his long fingers are bracketing his painted mouth, careful about what secrets slip through.
Staring at the arch of a silk clad foot, and feeling the way the line of it fills his gut with the same hunger as smudged lipstick and well tailored suits and moaning breaths, Paulie answers, “Uh. Neither d-did I.” He digs a thumb in to follow that slope, the gentle sweep up to the ball of Mr. Iceburg’s foot, and stopping right under his toes.
“Dear lord,” Iceburg huffs. It might sound stuffy to some, but Paulie remembers that same tone when he had blown his boss after dinner last week, and knows this is doing something for him too. He repeats the movement, increasing the pressure, and is rewarded with a breathy groan.
A third sweep, and Paulie thinks about his dick slotting into place inside of that curve, and he nearly comes on the spot.
“C-can-” he doesn’t know how to ask for it, even though it already happened, technically. Is happening, currently. It’s too hot, down here, for proper thinking.
“Yes, darling,” Mr. Iceburg sighs, so sweet and soft, the lilt at the end of his words giving away his desire.
Paulie’s hands scramble, to grab for that slim ankle, some part of his overcooked brain summoning an image of holding that foot against his still unopened pants in a haze of frenzied humping. He isn’t careful, and the sock garter’s elastic band snaps back, whips against sensitive pale skin.
“Ah,” is choked out at the crack against skin, and those toes in Paulie’s hold curl in pleasure.
Holy shit. “Holy shit,” Paulie chokes out. He should do that again, he should- fuck, they both still have their pants zipped up tight, he needs to- he wants, he-
The foot flexes in his iron hold. “You’re allowed, Paulie. Do it.”
Paulie gulps. The hand hovering with indecision at the garter belt clutches over the other one instead, hand over desperate hand to make that silk ankle his and his alone. He’s panting, hard, and sweat is running into his eyes. But still Paulie watches with rapt attention as he fits Mr. Iceburg’s foot against his hard crotch again.
“Holy shit,” Paulie wheezes. The shoe was ruthless, and hurt in the best way. But skin and silk? The give of it is divine, even through denim, curving against him, and Mr. Iceburg can flex and shove and push at any point to turn softness into steel, to force Paulie any which way he pleases under his hold, especially with Paulie barely able to move his hips with the way his boot is still braced above him.
Iceburg scoots back a fraction in his chair. His eyes, sparkling and black with pleasure, eat up the sight of Paulie below him. “Put your hands up for me again, Paulie.” He says it so calmly, that demand, but Paulie still shivers.
His hands smack flat into the wood on either side of his head again, and Paulie is exposed, utterly, even while fully dressed. Mr. Iceburg will take his time, unravel him bit by bit, while Paulie begs for-
Click-clack-click echoes from down the hallway. Kalifa, returned.
“Motherfucker,” Mr. Iceburg curses lowly with feeling. He bites his lip, a section of purple disappearing beneath frustrated teeth. He sits up, eyes disappearing, and scoots the chair up into place. Wordlessly, Paulie falls into a panic at losing the attention, even as his cock twitches and spurts beneath his boss’ foot, knowing he is physically helpless on the floor, but still, somehow, even with just this, pleasing him even now.
And… Paulie gulps. Attempts to roll his hips, and very much cannot.
Because Mr. Iceburg’s foot hasn’t left its warm place over Paulie’s cock.
Above him, Iceburg takes huge, deep breaths, probably trying to calm himself down enough to pull off a conversation while… oh, hell… while still keeping Paulie constrained, with nothing but the gentle touch of toes. Paulie tries to match those deep breaths, to sound less like a panting animal desperate to come under the desk.
Click-clack-click , up to the door, and then the perfunctory knock before Kalifa enters without verbal permission. “Mr. Iceburg, sir,” she starts. Then pauses. Her shoes are silent, which means she is not approaching the desk, thank god. Paulie holds his breath anyway, but still can’t help but twist his hips the smallest, tiniest bit, to ease the inevitable waiting. He, below, his lover’s private pleasure sprawled on the floor; even if not the way he had first imagined, still heartracing nonetheless.
Kalifa doesn’t continue, so Mr. Iceburg is forced to press his foot down a fraction, to force Paulie still, and prompt, “Yes, Kalifa?”
Now her shoe is tapping in place, in irritation. “You have double booked yourself again, sir.”
“My apologies.” The foot starts to slide up, up, the heel putting on pressure as it follows. Paulie holds in a whimper, just barely.
“If you will remember that last time we discussed this-” The foot slides back down, then runs up again, enough effort put into it this time to nearly have Paulie’s boot slipping out of place as his hips are weighed down, cock compressed.
“Yes, of course. I was simply hoping he would choose-” This time, Mr. Iceburg pauses. His foot flexes, and Paulie watches the covered big toe curl out, to slot the bump of Paulie’s cockhead between it and the next toe, and fucking squeeze. Paulie’s eyes roll back in his head, and he is so close, has been so close for so long, he might actually die down here.
“Well now that that is resolved, perhaps you should consider going home, sir.” Paulie is released, and he almost begs for more, even with Kalifa just a handful of steps away.
“Why is that?” All five toes are suddenly behind Paulie’s balls, rolling up, lifting. The squirming response is uncontrollable, and he has no clue if he is trying to escape or increase the pressure getting him wetter.
“You aren’t looking well, sir.” A roll of ankle, and the powerful heel rests on his balls now, threatening to end Paulie for good.
“...Perhaps so. I’ll wrap things up and head home. Thank you, Kalifa.”
Neither of them move, as Kalifa gives a few more reminders, shoe tapping nonstop. Then the door opens, click-clack, closes, and Kalifa is gone.
The chair slams backwards, Iceburg no longer in it but instead gripping the desk’s edge, all of his weight on one slightly bent leg to better support the sudden vigorous grinding into Paulie’s crotch. Paulie’s hands are useless to brace his body against the onslaught, and his head bumps the desk with each thrust.
“She was rather frightening, with all of that tapping,” Mr. Iceburg comments breathlessly over Paulie’s yowling. He is invisible, torso and face obscured by the desk, but there’s an excited smile in his voice. “Maybe next time I’ll borrow her shoes, when you want to do this again.”
Paulie thinks he hears something wooden snap, but he doesn’t care. He grits his teeth against the backbending force of his orgasm, chased all the while by one soft and brutal foot.
When he can open his eyes again, Paulie finds his pants front soaked and ruined, his breath still gone, and his boss - his boyfriend - in a rumpled sprawl on the floor by the desk, watching Paulie and palming the tent of his dress pants.
“There’s room for you under here,” Paulie’s dry mouth gasps. It might feel better, if it gets a wet, tongue filled kiss, and some lipstick too.
Mr. Iceburg smiles and starts to crawl over, sharing the sentiment.