I present the portmanteau...Wessonator!
It was only when the lights of Sandover flickered and dimmed that Sam was able to breathe a sigh of relief, stretching out in his too-small cubicle, and stood.
He hated his job, sitting stifled and cramped, listening to people day in and day out. People who never thought first, and took the easy way out- expecting others to solve their problems. Yeah, it was overanalyzing the situation, making it deeper than it actually was, and it had its perks.
For now, he waited for this time of night, when the harried employees shuffled out with quick and eager goodbyes, home to their wives, families, boyfriends or video games. Nobody questioned him for staying late; not even Mr. Smith himself, who was often the last out, and would give Sam a look something akin to distant approval, like Sam was staying late to work.
No, Sam had no family to go home to. He was in his prime, good looking, and waiting for the sound of squeaking wheels from a mop bucket to echo through the empty halls.
It was pretty pathetic.
“Your dedication to work is impressive,” a voice behind him commented. “Really sad, and totally unrealistic. So yeah, maybe not so impressive.”
Sam turned on his heel, breath catching. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts, he hadn’t heard the sound he was waiting for, and now the nighttime janitor was staring at him, chin propped thoughtfully on the hands curled over the top of the mop handle, as if he’d always been there. He was short- well, everyone was short to Sam, but the guy might even be shorter than Mr. Smith- with hair that looked like he spent his days sweeping his hand through it, an easy going smile, and eyes that seemed to shift from amber to burnished gold.
Not that Sam paid attention or anything.
“Y-Yeah,” Sam forced out, cursing the startled stammer. “Uh, I was just…closing out. Last minute customer…I’ll get out of your hair. Let you do your..um..”
“Mopping?” The man offered. “Oh, yeah, by all means. Hurry up so I can sweep up after you mooks, and make everything all tidy before Mr. Dean Smith comes in any more constipated than usual.”
Sam couldn’t help but laugh, because the boss did need to lighten up a little, and the janitor’s answering grin warmed something in Sam’s chest. Clearing his throat, he gathered his things, breaking eye contact.
“You goin’?” Sam should really get the name of the guy he’s been staying after work to see. His co-workers jokingly called him The Trickster because of his habit of messing with annoying employees or high end clients. A door handle that breaks from the inside here, ‘accidentally’ forgetting to put up a ‘Caution: Wet Floor’ sign there…
“I’m going,” Sam nodded. “I have to get back to, uh. I have this…thing.”
“This thing, huh?” the janitor echoed with an amused grin that seemed to reach his eyes. “Can’t bullshit a bullshitter, kiddo. “ For some reason, the ‘endearment’ sent chills racing up his spine. Something he should be offended by caused his breathing to stutter, eyes widening as the other man abandoned his mop and came closer, eyes flashing that surreal gold.
“Have..” Sam swallowed. “Have we..met before? I could swear we…”
“And that’s your pickup line? ‘Have we met before?’ Lame,” the janitor shook his head. “You can do better than that.”
“I…what?”
“Come on,” the janitor looked almost…impatient. “Lets see what the techno-geek is packing in those khakis.”
“Wait..hold on!” Sam protested. “Are you insane? Are you actually…now? Us? In the office? You don’t even know me.”
“Carpe diem, Sam.” And there were hands at his belt, curious, surprisingly light, teasing. Sam broke, yanking the man into a bruising kiss, frantically seeking an outlet from monotony and loneliness in a man who was technically a stranger, absorbing the heat and too-sweet taste of his mouth. Chocolate. Reeses Cups from the vending machine. He let unfamiliar hands touch and coax, felt his pants drop.
“Oh, God,” Sam moaned. “I work here…never going to be able to…” any coherent thought flew out the window when his computer and telephone were suddenly swept off the desk, somewhat overdramatically, and he was manhandled onto the counter. Sam’s gaze shifted down, and the janitor was kneeling, looking up at him with dark, expectant eyes. “Oh, God, you’re going to…here…now..why…my desk…?”
“I’m not God,” the other man said. “Not even close.” His mouth closed mercilessly around Sam’s erection, and Sam nearly lost it right there.
He was a damn good employee. He did his job, he was well-liked by his co-workers. He was never too early, never too late, and the customers never had a bad thing to say about him.
But now…it was the witching hour. He’s on his desk, pants and underwear bunched around his ankles with the nighttime janitor of Sandover sucking him off, and sounding like he was enjoying it. His computer and telephone were distant memories on the floor. He could hear his own moans….and was he really that loud? That needy?
“Whoa,” the janitor murmured, sending electric thrills through Sam’s cock. “Easy there, big boy. Feel like you’re gonna lose it any minute now.”
“Damnit!” Sam swore. “I can’t…I can’t…”
And the man between his legs just groaned, low and pleased, and Sam lost it, digging a hand into the silk-soft brown hair, coming hard and fast into that too clever mouth.
“Oh..shit..i’m sorry..” Sam rambled. “I’m sorry, I totally…”
“It’s cool,” the man said, like it was the most normal thing to blow a stranger, swallow it, and shrug it off. Even more normal to slide up Sam’s body, and kiss him square on the mouth.
Sam panted, heavily, eyes closing. “I..never..got your name..though.”
And the janitor began to laugh, openly. “Gabriel,” he said. “They call me Gabriel.”