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JEREMY WAS— FOR ONCE— actually happy to be working at a hotel.

Of course, his viewpoint was pretty skewed. He had only ever worked at hotels, had a terrible experience working for his parents, so now that he was having a relatively decent time here, he was fucking ecstatic.

...Maybe he should consider actually working outside his field to balance out his standards a bit.

Anyway, this new job was wonderful by comparison, there were a few drawbacks— tight, uncomfortable, uniform-based drawbacks, but those were very much overshadowed by all of the benefits, one of which being that his parents weren’t constantly hovering over him and weighing him down with their expectations.

And once he was free of those, Jeremy did some damn fine work.

Such fine work in fact, that it didn’t take him very long to become the hotel’s assistant manager, because becoming manager might have been too much of a flex— but mostly because it might blow his cover.

The work came to him naturally, and, even better in Jeremy’s opinion, he was getting along with his coworkers, making actual friends that weren’t from his hometown or high school, and didn’t judge him, in fact, were even happy for him, since his being good at hotel management and giving them the occasional boost helped everyone enjoy the job’s other benefits.

The job’s other benefits being—

Jeremy stops typing and darts his tongue out to wet his lips, the motion inadvertently bumping the still-unfamiliar gold nose ring from the mayor, his thumb brushing against it as he wipes away the excess saliva. Behind him, on the other side of the front desk, his coworker, Dean, sighs loudly as he fusses with his hot pink wig, the noise echoing throughout the empty lobby.

“It’s a Saturday night, what the fuck?” Dean says, slumping in his seat well beyond what is appropriate for being at a front desk. “Where is everyone?”

Jeremy shrugs, letting out a little chuckle at Dean’s desperation.

“I’m sure they’re out enjoying the night life. There’s so much to do in B-Town, I don’t blame them in slightest.”

And Jeremy wasn’t just blowing hot air. He was lucky that the first time he came to B-Town he had come with a purpose, otherwise he would’ve been paralyzed by the overwhelming amount the city had. Bright lights, fancy restaurants, big casinos, crazy architecture, theatres, museums, clubs— 

Of course the A-village had its charms, but as far as Jeremy was concerned, those charms were really only limited to— 

“Ah, someone’s coming!”

There’s a cacophony of sound as Dean rights himself— puts away his phone and the magazine he swiped from one of the suites on his last shift, takes his feet off the counter, sits up straight and smiles— acting every bit like the employee he should be, just in time for the bell above the door to chime as the next guest comes in.

“Welcome to the Grand Chrysanthemum Hotel!” Dean and Jeremy say in the same sing-song unison.

A quiet falls after, interrupted only by the sound of footfalls, Jeremy’s rapid typing, and Dean doing some last minute preening.

“Ooh,” Dean whispers, jabbing an elbow into Jeremy’s side. “It’s the mayor.”

For a second, Jeremy gets excited. His heart starts racing, and before he can stop himself he turns—

Oh. Well, one must always smile when a new customer comes in.

It wasn’t his mayor, but the mayor of B-Town, a one A.J. Bishop.

He wasn’t who Jeremy expected, but there was nothing wrong with him as a person. He was diligent and responsible— the fact that B-Town was thriving now was directly the result of his own policies; he was polite— always nice to the staff whenever he came to the hotel; and, most importantly, he was attractive.

He was an older gentleman, but according to Jeremy’s coworkers, prior to becoming mayor he had been known in B-Town for his athleticism, and it seemed he had maintained those habits at an older age as well. He was tall and broad, with dark skin and salt-and-pepper locks that were more salt than pepper and neatly pulled back into a long thick braid.

Jeremy inclines his head politely as Bishop gets closer, then shoots a glance at Dean. As expected, Dean is practically salivating at the thought of new guests, though he’s far more interested in Bishop’s younger entourage of bodyguards.

Jeremy relaxes a little. 

Bishop was, in an oddly specific way, familiar. Sure, he walked into the establishment wearing a full black suit and grey tie, but draped over that was a grey patterned robe— a ritual robe, according to the hotel staff that had grown up B-Town— and that little detail, that attention to old customs was just enough to endear Jeremy to him.

Still, regardless of his feelings, he was the assistant manager. Even if he got the same benefits as everyone else, he still needed to act...respectably.

Even so, his breath quickens when A.J. Bishop rests his forearms on the counter and leans forward with a big smile on his face.

“Good evening. There should be two room reservations under Bishop, and a dining hall reservation for a conference under the same name for tomorrow at 9 am?”

“Yes, of course,” Jeremy says, swallowing as he turns back to the computer and checks the mayor and company in, grabbing their room keys from the front desk drawers. “Here you go. Your bags are already waiting inside your usual rooms, and the elevators are to your left. Tomorrow morning someone will come by to open dining hall C for you.”

Jeremy finishes up his spiel with a smile, and then with a wave as the mayor and his bodyguards make their way across the lobby to the elevators. Once they’ve safely gone off to the next floor, Jeremy and Dean finally relax, slumping in their seats.

Almost immediately, Dean puts his foot back up on the counter, and Jeremy turns back to the computer again.

A moment later Dean groans, his foot hitting the ground with a loud thud.

“Fuuuuuck, I can’t wait anymore,” Dean says. “Do you think they’re up in their rooms by now? God, what time is it anyway?”

Jeremy sighs.

“Just go, you’ve only got five minutes left on your shift. Bring them some warm towels or something.”

“Jeremy!” Dean throws himself into Jeremy’s arms and presses a kiss to his cheek. “I totally owe you one! If I see Chris on my way down I’ll tell him to hurry up.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You’re a life-saver,” Dean calls over his shoulder as he makes his way to the elevators.

Jeremy rolls his eyes. Letting someone off their shift early to suck some cock hardly counted as saving a life.

A moment later, his phone pings with a message from Dean.

Cashing in that favor now, I’ll put in a good word for you!

“Ha! I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Jeremy mutters, tapping out a carefully evasive reply as his phone pings again.

This time it’s a text from the mayor, a mirror selfie taken in his charmingly-quaint magazine-spread bathroom, his head and shoulders cut off but his ass in full-view as he perches on the edge of the kitchen sink, the curve of his cheeks made more dramatic by the exposed line of his back and tight black fabric hugging his body.

It’s actually kind of hot— in a sensual, easy way that was kind of...not the mayor’s style really— but Jeremy’s on the clock.

He quickly types out a response, then pauses, his thumb hovering over the send button.

Jeremy had never actually told the mayor the truth about this job. And, honestly, the mayor probably wouldn’t care. Probably. 

But, the point still remained that Jeremy was in B-Town and the mayor was back at A-village. They could text back and forth until they were both blue in the balls, but the mayor could go and take care of things behind his inn, while Jeremy had...this. This thing that only he knew about. 

And, unfortunately, at a time like this, he did indeed have his eyes cautiously set on...Bishop. The next best thing apparently.

He wasn’t interested in the man in the same way of course, but if it was just something to tide him over— 

Thankfully and unthankfully, Jeremy’s musings are cut short as the elevator door opens, signalling the start of the next shift.

Jeremy hides his phone in the desk drawer and quickly schools his expression into something more patient as Chris minces his way across the lobby and out to the front desk, glancing back and around and over his shoulder every other second.

Finally, he takes the other seat at the front desk, but not before glaring at it like he knows it’s only a few whispered words away from stabbing him in the back.

Jeremy suppresses a sigh. As assistant manager of the hotel, he should ask what’s going on and affirm the mental health and stability of his coworkers and employees— 

“Something on your mind?” he asks, knowing he already sounds more critical than he’d like.

Lucky for him, Chris seems more shocked than hurt, turning to stare at him with wide eyes before whispering: “You don’t know?”

Oh, something serious for once? “Know what?”

Chris tells him what he should know and by the end of his story Jeremy is...a little annoyed but not surprised.

What a good portion of the hotel staff would apparently have Jeremy believe is that the Grand Chrysanthemum is haunted by a ghost. A very hot ghost with long golden hair and a “spooky” golden eye that glowed in the dark and fucking 9-inch platform pleasers.

Jeremy exhales slowly though his nose. This whole time he thought they were worlds away, that he was keeping this little secret, but this whole the mayor was slinking around, right under his nose.

He knew the mayor didn’t mean any harm by it—  it was just his own weird way of having fun— but Jeremy wished he had a way of having fun that did not scare the piss out of his coworkers.

It takes maybe way too long to comfort Chris, who’s already so nervous that he can barely handle night shifts to begin with, but finally Jeremy disentangles himself with the excuse that he’s going to handle this ghost business once and for all.

He’s not of course. Bishop’s probably all settled in for the night by now.

The trip up is boring and uneventful, as is walking down the nearly empty hallway. At 2 in the morning, there’s nothing of note, save for the...meaty slapping sounds coming from more than one hotel room.

For fuck’s sake, Jeremy can hear Dean from the other end of the hall, but he doesn’t have the patience to tell him not to flaunt the job’s benefits so blatantly.

He rolls his eyes, then quickly gathers his composure and flicks some dust off the apron of his uniform before knocking on Bishop’s door, three times in quick succession.

Jeremy had a master key card of course, but there was a principle to these things.

After an equally polite moment, the door opens and Bishop smiles down at him.

“I was wondering when I’d see you. Please, come in.”

Jeremy smiles politely and steps past him, only sparing the room a casual glance as he makes his way over to the bed and perches on the edge in a way that could only be described as coquettish, like a butterfly on a flower petal, the motion well-practiced after so many months.

The room itself wasn’t anything special. It was decently big with a double-bed, a full bath, and a little sitting area with a couch and coffee table. Perhaps Bishop found it luxurious when he was staying there alone, but to Jeremy it looked like the sort of room you would get with your friends after all of you pooled your money. Not that that was a bad thing, it was just...less ritzy than he expected.

Bishop shuts the door behind him and smiles. He had already removed his shoes and laid his traditional robe over the back of the couch, looking rather comfortable for someone who had just checked in only a little bit ago.

“I’ve had a long day today. Do you mind if I take a shower?”

“Not at all,” Jeremy says.

Bishop inclines his head in lieu of a thanks and makes his way to the bath, loosening his tie along the way and giving Jeremy the barest glimpse of collar bone and pectoral.

The bathroom door clicks shut, and Jeremy aimlessly kicks his feet as the water starts to run. Not a moment too soon, there’s another knock on the door, and Jeremy rises to answer it while Bishop is distracted.

“Ah-hah, I knew you stole my black D’Orsay flats, you little gremlin,” the mayor— his mayor—  says, pinching Jeremy’s cheek as he invites himself in to Bishop’s suite.

Jeremy is...speechless, barely able to shut the damn door and swallow his own saliva as the mayor casually swaggers over carpet in heels, taking in every little detail of Bishop’s room as Jeremy watches him, open mouthed.

They...were wearing basically the same thing— a little black dress for both, but a mob cap, apron, and, yes, the stolen D’Orsay flats for Jeremy, and white pleasers, a hair bow holding up a high ponytail, and a white bra harness for the mayor— but only one of them actually looked fuckable, and, as usual, it wasn’t Jeremy.

“What a nice little room.” The mayor flops on the bed. “Makes me wish I could get a real building for the springs.”

“I haven’t fucked anyone else,” Jeremy says, hoping to rip the bandage off. “Well, just handjobs and blowjobs…”

“That’s nice.” The mayor pouts, glittery gold lipstick glinting in the soft lamplight of the room. “You haven’t been home in weeks.”

Jeremy cringes as he makes his way to the bed. He...definitely did fuck up on that front. He really just wanted to avoid his parents, but caught in the crossfire was— 

“I’m really sorry,” Jeremy finally said. “Um...I’m assistant manager now.”

“Really? I’m happy to know that you’ve been working hard, at least. Come, let me reward you.”

Jeremy didn’t know what else he could possibly be expecting, but a moment later he’s on the bed, pinned beneath the mayor, already letting out a low groan as the other man nibbles at his bottom lip.

“You’ve kept this from me for so long,” the mayor whispers in his ear. “To think, I was waiting so patiently for your touch while you were here, wearing a skimpy little outfit like this, getting attention from all sorts of men. To think you even lured in a man like Bishop.”

The mayor kisses him again, gently working his tongue into Jeremy’s mouth, but Jeremy squirms away.

“You’re not mad about that, right? There’s no secret beef between you and Bishop?”

The mayor makes a face. “W-Well…”


A.J.’s boys are good at heart.

They’re a little young, maybe a bit younger than he was when he got elected, and they a bit more rambunctious than he can handle at times, making their affection for the pink-haired reception-boy very clear, even though they’re technically still on the clock— but at the end of the day, they listen to him, respect him even.

When their conversation in the elevator switches from assessing the pink-haired receptionist’s finer features to commenting on Remy’s relative...homeliness, A.J. has to put his foot down.

“Stop that now. Be polite.”

With only five words, the boys shape up. Murmur their apologies and stand up straight again. They respect him.

The boys make fine bodyguards. They’re big and scary, can feel when a fight’s coming and act so A.J. doesn’t have to. He’s happy to let everyone forget how strong he actually is until the time calls for it, but one of these days he has to sit these boys down and teach them how to do things right.

There’s more to this than catching someone about to throw a fist or pull a gun and drawing faster like a lawman in the West. There’s more signs that people give beyond violence and aggression. People give off power, and they don’t recognize that. They’re young, so all they see is friend, fuck, fight or forgotten. They defer to A.J. because he's friend, and because they’ve seen him fight with their own eyes, but A.J. had to work for that. If they weren’t already hired by him, they’d never be able to pick up that he was someone different.

The pink-haired reception-boy was fuck, long weave, sharp-tongue, nice ass— but they couldn’t register Remy at all, couldn’t tell at a glance that he was manager or something like it, couldn’t read his elegant brand of going about things. Remy sold himself as a bit too simple, a bit too plain, like he didn’t want people to know he was anything more than a shy boy with a slightly-conspicuous nose ring.

A.J. was sure if in this elevator he randomly promoted one of the boys to a position he completely made up, whoever he chose would be peacocking for the rest of the goddamn night. They’d never think to be subtle, to hide until the time was right.

Maybe Remy was a bit like A.J. in that way. 

A.J. chuckles quietly to himself, and the boys stare over at him as if they didn’t know he could.

Once they’re settled in their separate rooms— the boys share one and A.J. gets his own, his favorite— A.J. can tell when the little reception-boy finally makes his way up. The boys get wild and loud, and A.J. could knock on the wall and remind them to mind their manners but they’ll simmer down and focus soon enough so he lets them have it.

He lives a little through them too. He’s been here enough times to get a gist for the work shifts and schedules, enjoyed the benefits more than enough times, but for some reason tonight he couldn’t fucking stand the wait.

A.J. knew that Remy marked him for later with only a glance.

It wasn’t a serious mark. It left him feeling like an article in a magazine— Remy might swing by to look him over, but he might forget entirely and find something new instead.

Normally, A.J. wouldn’t care. He did need to wake up early tomorrow, but he couldn’t stop that shaking in his leg, the way he keeps glancing at the door, has to pour himself a glass of whiskey, then almost spills it when Remy finally knocks.

A.J. gathers himself— it doesn’t do any good to talk to a hotel manager looking like a mess, even if both of you would end up as a mess by the end of the conversation— and opens the door with a (hopefully) gentle smile.

He could understand why his boys were so quick to write him off. Remy was pretty small, much smaller than he seemed to be when he was sitting at the desk— but A.J. knew better than to write an opponent off based on height alone.

Remy could blow on him and he’d topple over, and they both know this, but A.J. manages to pull himself together.

“I was wondering when I’d see you,” A.J. says, even though he’s not the one who should be saying it. “Please, come in.”

Remy slides past him with a hint of a smile on his lips, careful not to touch A.J. before he wants to.

A.J.’s heart is hammering in his chest as Remy confidently makes his way to the bed— a bed he’s probably been on plenty of times before— only stopping to run his fingers over A.J.’s elder robe before gently sitting on the very edge of the bed, as if he’s not a permanent fixture, as if he could leave at any moment.

A.J. shuts the door, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he’s sweating, and possibly through his shirt.

He knew some folks were into that, but his heart was already doing as much as it could, Remy wouldn’t tell him outright and A.J. couldn’t handle waiting for his judgement, like a judge passing a verdict at a trial.

“I’ve had a long day today. Do you mind if I take a shower?”

Remy smiles and folds one leg over the other. “Not at all.”

A.J. nods, afraid that he can’t say anything more without stuttering, and slips into the bathroom, shucking off his jacket and loosening his tie on the way over.

He wanted Remy to come and now that he was here he could barely stand it. He just...he needed a bit more time to gather his composure.

A.J. would shower, use the isolation to build up his confidence again, just like he used to for boxing and speeches, then go out there and show that boy exactly what he could do.

That’s...that’s what he needed to focus on.

Remy, confident and accomplished despite his youth and his size.

A.J. wondered— A.J. was allowing himself to wonder— just how much he knew, just exactly what he liked. Was he as confident and self-assured in bed as he was behind the receptionist’s desk? Or was his confidence limited to his work at the hotel? Either way, A.J. wanted to teach him a thing or two, guide him with a mature hand— 

Give him an experience that would make him think twice about visiting another guest’s room.

A.J.’s mouth slowly breaks into a grin as he tips his head back, letting the hot water run down his neck and chest, the drops nestling in the wiry pubes above a half-hard cock, but the grin fades slowly after.

Even after doing a semi-decent job at pumping himself up, something felt...not right.

He knew what it was. He wanted to fuck but his head wasn’t right. The same thing would happen back when he boxed regularly— he’d bicker with his mama in the morning and couldn’t really work up the energy for a match at night until he called her and apologized.

A.J. knew what the problem was— that fucker down in A-village, that fucking bastard talking down his nose at everyone in the county, barring A.J. from buying that little strip of land at the AB border for no reason other than he could— A.J. sighs and splashes some water onto his face. Stop thinking about this and think about fucking, think about Remy, about his barely cracked voice moaning with pleasure, about whatever he was hiding under that dress.

Yeah, that’ll do it.

A.J. chuckles to himself as he shuts off the water and grabs one of those fluffy Grand Chrysanthemum towels, tying it around his waist as he opens the bathroom door, a smooth line already on his lips when—

A.J. Bishop stops...and blinks.

There was Jeremy, still on the bed, but now sitting next to, behind, another taller maid, whose dress is half-undone around his shoulders, gasping as Jeremy presses his lips to his neck and the planes of his back.

The other maid, that other maid. One hand does a mediocre job at holding his dress in place to cover his chest and the other holds up his hair, his long golden braids.

A.J.’s seeing red.

“You couldn’t let that damn property deal go, could you?” A.J. snaps.

The other mayor slowly opens an eye— the freaky gold one— then lets his hair drop as he turns to face him, staring into his soul.

“That’s funny,” the mayor says slowly as Remy sighs and pulls away. “You think I’m here for you. Which, for the record, I am not, but while we’re on the subject, you still won’t be getting a damn acre.”

Not here for A.J.?

A.J. looks at Remy—


—and Jeremy glances away, his eyes landing on the smooth black skin of the mayor’s thigh and then bouncing off to the wall. The mayor sighs and presses a kiss to Jeremy’s forehead before looking back at Bishop.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he coos, glaring at Bishop. “We should try harder to keep our work and our pleasure separate, no?”

Bishop throws himself down onto the sofa across from the bed. “So you’ll be on your way out then?”

“Ha! That’s up to him.” The mayor holds Jeremy’s chin and gives his face an affectionate little squeeze. “What do you want, dear?”

Jeremy glances over at Bishop and sighs. It wasn’t like he was trying to lead him on, but he didn’t necessarily want to reject him either just because the person he actually wanted to fuck showed up...

“I’ve...clearly been out of the local politics game, but this isn’t something that’s going to prevent you two from...working it?”

Jeremy knows the mayor is, in simple terms, ready to go for anything at all times, so his apologetic look is more directed to Bishop who still looks fairly put out.

The mayor groans and rolls his eyes.

“How are you mad about this right now?” The mayor says, ruining everything. “You have two cock destroyers—”

Jeremy winces. “Okay, I wouldn’t really call myself a—” 

“— sitting right here on your bed. I know you’ve thought about shoving it up my ass and his more than once and my love is literally giving you a free shot on both.”

With that, the mayor flicks a few loose braids over his shoulder, like he just made a point. Jeremy covers his mouth and nose with his hands, takes a deep calming breath, then looks at Bishop again.

Finally, Bishop huffs, letting out a noise between a snort and a laugh as he stands up, allowing his towel to fall onto the floor at his feet.

Jeremy’s first instinct is to glance away, but the mayor is quick to tilt his head back so that he can’t not look at what Bishop is packing, and Bishop, ever the sportsman, is happy to pose and put himself on display.

“Well?” the mayor whispers, eyes tracking the way Jeremy’s Adam’s apple bobs.

When Jeremy first realized he was gay, guys like Bishop were the kind of guys he...thought about when he had a few moments to himself at the inn. Obviously not as old, but big and muscular and...overwhelming to someone short and scrawny like Jeremy.

...He should’ve stopped Bishop from taking that bath.

And Bishop’s cock. It wasn’t the biggest cock he had seen. It was long like the mayor’s but with the girth to back it up— a massive horse cock for a massive horse man— but it still wasn’t the biggest cock he had ever taken.

The difference was that he knew he couldn’t take this one.

When he took the...giant crab dildo into his asshole, he was hopped up on aphrodisiacs and endorphins and the need to please his lover, but now he was sober, on the clock, and intensely nervous.

He was deathly afraid of Bishop’s cock, but he still wanted to put his mouth on it.

Of course the mayor was better at reading him than he was at disentangling his own needs.

“Come here,” he says, beckoning Bishop over with a crook of his finger and wrapping his arm around Jeremy’s shoulders so he can’t let his apprehension get the better of him and squirm away.

Bishop saunters over, getting so close that Jeremy can practically smell him, skin and soap, but it’s the mayor who strikes first, taking Bishop’s cock in hand and wrapping his lips around the tip like it’s not even slightly daunting.

Jeremy’s nails dig into his palm as he clenches his fist. 

He never got jealous when the mayor did things like this— Jeremy had watched him fuck plenty of non-Jeremy people and didn’t feel a thing, but there was something almost infuriating about watching him deep-throat a man that he was interested in, Bishop and the mayor sharing a look as Bishop combs a hand through the mayor’s golden braids.

Almost as soon as it begins, the moment is over, and even Bishop seems confused when the mayor pulls off and slinks off the bed so he can push him towards Jeremy, the head of his cock tapping against Jeremy’s lips.

“I got him all ready for you,” the mayor purrs, pushing Bishop’s hips forward. “Say thank you.”

Jeremy glances up at Bishop, eyes wide and doe-y, then murmurs a quiet “thank you”, before leaning in and swiping his tongue over the slit.

“May I?” Bishop says softly.

Jeremy nods, butting the top of his head up into Bishop’s waiting hand. A moment later, the mayor’s hand joins it, both of them holding his head in place as he hesitantly works over Bishop’s cock. Normally, he’d be picky, but he stopped fussing with the wave cream a while ago and let his hair coil naturally— the mayor liked how soft it felt and, apparently, so did Bishop.

“Take your time now,” Bishop whispers.

“Take all of it,” the mayor whispers.

Bishop glances at him, eyebrows raised in surprise, but the mayor is the one Jeremy listens to, swallowing as he leans in and takes Bishop’s head into his mouth and then almost everything else. It’s as big as he imagined, bigger even, the weight of it rests heavy on his tongue, strains his jaw and throat, makes tears spring to his eyes, that heady crotch scent that soap can’t quite get rid of filling his nose as it’s buried in grey pubic hair.

It’s exactly what he wanted. Jeremy shuts his eyes and moans, savoring the moment.

“You’ve done wonderfully,” the mayor says, only to step away as Jeremy finally lets go of himself, first grabbing onto Bishop’s hips, then eagerly groping his ass and thighs and running his hands over the contours of his sculpted abdomen.

“Oh my.” The mayor peers at the scene over Bishop’s shoulder with gleaming eyes as the other man tips his head back in open-mouthed pleasure. “He doesn’t even suck my cock like that.”

Bishop sighs— the mood once again obliterated by the mayor’s inability to shut up— just as Jeremy’s stamina gives and he’s forced to pull off for a bit, glancing up at Bishop apologetically.

“How exactly do you two know each other?” he asks and Jeremy starts to reply, only to fall into a slightly-embarrassing coughing fit that makes the mayor snicker.

“We’re dating,” he finally says with a voice like gravel.

Bishop blinks. “Really now?”

Jeremy nods shyly as the mayor climbs back onto the bed.

“So surprising, right? What’s a sweet little angel like him doing with a slut like me?”

“I wouldn’t say it like that, but sure.”

“Very funny, Archimedes Juncture Bishop—”

“Not my name.”

“ — but I’ll have you know that we met one fateful day and not 24 hours later he was pounding me into next week.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Jeremy says, trying to ignore the way his face heats up at the crude rendering of events.

“Why be shy? You did a wonderful job,” the mayor purrs.

“I have a hard time seeing it,” Bishop says, narrowing his eyes like he just discovered some subterfuge.

The mayor smiles and gestures for him to take a seat back on the sofa. “I’d be happy to provide you with some evidence, right, love?”

Jeremy’s face couldn’t be any hotter, but he nods anyway. The mayor presses a kiss to his lips, then rucks up his dress and apron and undoes his tuck with the grace and ease of an expert.

Of course Jeremy had some reservations about getting fucked in front of an audience. Hell, he didn’t even really plan on getting fucked today , the most he had done with customers was a handjob, a footjob for the more...unique customers, and, very occasionally, a blowjob. He didn’t even like to bottom most of the time and the mayor didn’t really like to top, but Jeremy would rather bottom and save himself the embarrassment of topping in front of someone who could clearly do a better job.

Plus the mayor was the threat he knew. He’d rather ride what he had to offer than Bishop Jr.

When the mayor finally pins him to the bed he’s practically docile, legs spread and fists gripping the sheets as if the mayor’s already inside him, not even bothered to spare a glance for his actual guest until he opens his mouth.

“Well, aren’t we well-trained,” Bishop says, watching the scene as he takes care of himself with long slow strokes.

“All my handiwork, I assure you,” the mayor laughs, gently pressing the pad of his middle finger against Jeremy’s entrance. “Where’s the lube, my love?”

“Bedside drawer,” Bishop says.

“Eager, are we?” the mayor says, fishing the bottle out of its hiding spot and coating his fingers with a copious amount of lube. “Let’s make sure to entertain then, love.”

Getting finger blasted is completely different without aphrodisiacs. Back then, it was the drug that made him sensitive, the heat and the need overwhelming him, but now it’s sensitive in a completely different way, the anticipation and the nerves making him zoom in on and over-analyze every single sensation.

Even with all the lube, Jeremy is sure that he can feel the wrinkles of skin on the mayor’s knuckles as he spreads him wider, and wider.

In the back of his mind, Jeremy knows that it won’t really help much. The mayor’s fingers weren’t nearly as long as his cock, Jeremy was both looking forward to and deeply afraid of the mayor discovering all the little hidden spots Jeremy could never reach on his own.

His excitement definitely outweighed his fear though.

“Hurry up,” he moans.

The words are like magic. The searching fingers are gone and the blunt head of the mayor’s cock presses against his hole.



The mayor grips Jeremy’s hips and gently pushes his own forward, his cock driving forward and forward and splitting Jeremy open bit by bit with short quick thrusts.


It’s…different from the ritual. Obviously. It wasn’t the mayor’s cock before, he didn’t feel Jeremy’s wall clenching around him, didn’t care about his squirming only insofar as it made him difficult to fuck. But now, it mattered. Clearly it mattered to Jeremy, poised on the edge between the pleasure of sex and the pain of being penetrated and enjoying both loudly enough to put Dean to shame in the next room over. 

But it definitely mattered to the mayor now. Every single twitch and touch that Jeremy was feeling came from him, every single twitch and touch that made Jeremy whine and moan and gasp, all of them because he hadn’t gotten used to being inside him yet, because he never imagined Jeremy would be so damn tight, so damn perfect, locking his legs around the mayor’s waist like he couldn’t wait for him to go deeper, inviting him in. The mayor couldn’t help but be reminded of himself— couldn’t help but remember all the times he beckoned Jeremy to come inside his little cottage with a salacious little wink that meant more than dinner was to come.

This was that, only Jeremy wasn’t nearly as calculating. This was earnest and that made it all the more delightful.

The mayor shudders, not even bothering to hide his love-drunk smile, his hips sliding forward until what’s left of his cock is inside Jeremy, drawing out a yelp.

“Sorry, sorry,” he soothes. “Did I hurt you, love?”


“’S fine, keep going.”

Jeremy’s practically slurring he’s so far gone.

It’s different. He can’t quite describe it in any other way. Being penetrated with flesh instead of silicon (crab shell?) felt different, more real, more electric, even if the mayor’s cock didn’t have the same presence and pizazz as a transformed crab dildo, it was still like nothing else he’d ever had.

He gaze strays, his head tipping as the mayor hits him with a few rougher thrusts.

Bishop looks…bored.

Well, not bored per se. He’s aroused— very clearly aroused— and watching, interested, but with all the enthusiasm of someone digging through the greatest hits of their porn stash, halfway through an orgasm and just looking for something to throw up in the background to speed-up the process.

Jeremy can tell when the mayor notices his gaze, notices his fading attention, his hips slowing. Jeremy can’t help but give him a lazy, sheepish smile— he knew the mayor took these things kind of seriously, thought of it as opening himself up emotionally, but just this once he lets out his frustration with a sigh and returns the smile, flipping his ponytail out his face before pressing a kiss to Jeremy’s lips.

“Thought I was getting a show,” Bishop asks, once he realizes the focus is on him.

The mayor smiles, cocky, and extends a hand.

“Well, the theatre is all about the interaction between stage and audience. If you would, kind sir.”

Jeremy rolls his eyes and Bishop snorts, but he gets up anyway with a little grunt, cock bobbing with the motion as he climbs onto the bed and lines himself up with the mayor’s backside.

Jeremy is the one who reaches up and cups the mayor’s face, forcing him to at least look forward so Jeremy can watch his face— catch that smug little, lip-biting smirk as  the cold, lube-slick head of Bishop’s cock lines up with the mayor’s ass, and then the almost euphoric gasp as Bishop pops his cock in, a bottom through and through.

“Much better,” he half-gasps, half-groans, Jeremy sliding his hand down the column of the mayor’s throat as he tips his head back to speak to Bishop. “Well, you set the pace.”

And the mayor meant it, Bishop pushes his head forward, his chest and back down so he’s pressed up perfectly against Jeremy, and the mayor seizes the moment, pressing his mouth to Jeremy’s and forcing his tongue inside.

The mayor stays limp— well, not limp , but any fucking on his part comes to a halt. Jeremy wants to say something, whine or moan or buck his hips, but a moment later, Bishop slams his hips forward and Jeremy feels it, feels the mayor’s already flat stomach distend just slightly, feels the mayor’s cock slam into him differently, purely propelled by the Bishop’s own inertia. 

Jeremy’s never had an angry fuck before. Obviously, his experience with fucking is limited, but the mayor could never be in a bad mood and have sex at the same time. And Bishop isn’t mad per se, but there was obviously some bullshit going on between the two mayors about, like, property sales? taxes? some mayoral fuckery Jeremy did not care to wrap his head around, but something that was clearly causing stress between the two of them, stress that Bishop was pretty happy to sublimate into a good fucking.

A fucking largely meant for the mayor, but one that Jeremy could very clearly feel. As if he was getting some of the leftover stress by virtue of being associated with the mayor. Not that he minded. It felt amazing, that force combined with the feeling of the mayor’s cock inside him, digging deep at all his little sweet spots without having to do much at all. It was blunt, less precise than what the mayor could give him— but that wasn’t a bad thing, more reminiscent of the difference between being stabbed and being punched.

Jeremy doesn’t remember who cums first, but he thinks it’s him. Well, it must be him, because he remembers getting lost in the feeling, losing that sense of composure and pride he held so dear as the Grand Chrysanthemum’s assistant manager, all that time he spent distancing himself— limiting himself to hand and blow jobs— all of it slipping away for a few maybe embarrassing— he can’t remember— moments of pleasure.

But he remembers Bishop pulling out of the mayor, worried, and then the mayor pulling out of Jeremy, considerably more calm. This wasn’t the first time he’d fucked Jeremy unconscious— clean him off, push him to the other half of the bed and tuck him so he can get some rest— working shifts so late must be tiring, the mayor would pick him up in the morning— but in the meantime, the other half of the bed is left for finishing up what the two mayors had started.

In that moment, before he falls asleep, he wants to say something to Bishop, pat him on that tight little ass and tell him not to be so sentimental with the mayor. But at the end of the day he could only consider the state of his asshole and the state of his job. Weighing in on mayoral affairs probably wouldn’t be a good thing for him, and the fact that he had just cum wasn’t doing much for his motivation.

His altruism fades with his consciousness, and he falls asleep to the fleshy sounds, loud moans, and faint rhythmic motion of the mayor and Bishop’s fucking.


Jeremy wakes up in neither Bishop’s hotel room or his bedroom at his parents’ inn, but at the mayor’s house, thank God. He’d covered for him too, letting his parents know from his phone that he was skipping coming home again.

And then Jeremy decides to get a little wild and properly request a day off, taking one of the many he had piled up from all his hard work.

When he does finally come back to the Grand Chrysanthemum, one of the first customers he greets is a rather sour-looking A.J. Bishop.

Jeremy could only imagine what happened. After he passed out, things got intense between the mayor and Bishop, more passionate than expected, and, as expected, Bishop got tender, developed a soft spot for the mayor way too quickly to be healthy. They parted ways and Bishop carried that soft spot with him all the way up until the next time he and the mayor met, at which point the mayor, who felt no sympathy for Bishop at all, flipped that infatuation back on Bishop and walked away with the deal? sale? treaty? Whatever mayors do.

Hm. Maybe Jeremy should have said something.