Chapter Text
The pleads for 'please' almost slipped from Kincaid's lips. Keyword, almost. He had a little dignity left in him still.
Splayed across the front desk, fully clothed against the pale wood and obediently spreading his legs for his employer before him, Kincaid didn't beg. He just whined as Angelus' hand resumed its slow, languid, painfully slow up–and–down movement. Angelus was standing as prim as ever, unbothered as he looked over a paper — something from the business, Kincaid couldn't see from where he lay — and spared not even a passing glance in his assistant's direction.
The heat built in the human's belly once more, rising slowly but surely, ever higher. His eyes trailed down to watch the slow movement of Angelus' hand, hypnotised by the gold band around the middle finger, the faint tattoo on the pinky, the cruel squeeze of the pads of his palm against his aching cock. Kincaid whined, high and needy in his throat, eyes fluttering but never shutting as he watched. All throughout, Angelus made no move to show he cared at all, gingerly re–reading the paper for what must have been the 50th time since Kincaid had got there.
Kincaid's whimpers rose in volume, turning into o–mouthed moans as the heat tingled and spread across his hips, down his legs, down to his toes still contained in his leather loafers, at his imminent climax. He made the mistake of bucking his hips, just once, meekly into the hand that feeds — and Angelus stopped. He didn't move; only dragged his gaze from the damn paper and looked over his assistant, scrutinising him beneath a golden gaze.
"No— No, come on—" Kincaid whined, despair blooming in his chest as he felt the heat dissipate. Yet again, he lay helpless as his orgasm neared and waned, fading from his senses as Angelus held his cock tight, staring down at the offending thing, unblinking. Kincaid threw his head back, almost sobbing.
"You— come on, you've been going over the same tax report for—! for…"
"Twenty–seven minutes, Mr. Kincaid." Angelus' voice finally cut through the silence. Smooth and practised and so painfully Northern English, but finally hearing it was like a lifeline for Kincaid. Warm tears threatened to spill from the secretary's eyes.
"Twenty— twenty–fucking–seven minutes, you've been reading that fucking thing, please—"
"What was that?" Angelus purred, face held in stony cruelty. Kincaid's wet eyes rose to meet him, and his face burned in embarrassment. He knew had to yield; he was no match for the vampyre.
"… Please. I want to come." The words came out small, humiliating him to his very core. To his utter dismay, Angelus only raised an eyebrow in his direction.
"Do you? Poor thing. How horrible your predicament must be." His voice was flat, degrading the man even further. Kincaid bit his lip, a single shy tear slipping down his cheek and towards his ear. Angelus cooed, putting the tax record away and reaching his free hand to wipe at the trail of wetness with his free hand; the tingle of his carefully manicured claws against his cheek and down the shell of his ear almost made Kincaid cry out loud.
"Poor thing. My poor little secretary." The vampyre's tone was so patronising, dripping with implication, demeaning and cold. Kincaid knew exactly what he was thinking in his head, thanks to the damn vampyre projecting those chiding thoughts directly into his mind; Angelus' voice rung out with a quiet echo. 'Dumb little thing. I expected better from you. If you can't seem to behave, I'll have to think of something worse for you. Maybe I should leave you in charge of the toiletries again.'
And yet when Angelus spoke again, his tone was still as neutral as before, almost painfully merciful compared to the inside of Kincaid's head. "That's quite alright. Come now, you can handle a little more — just fifteen more minutes."
"No— no, please, Angelus—"
"Wrong answer."
"Ainesh—!"
"Wrong again, jaan."
Kincaid whimpered. His chest trembled at the weight of the golden gaze on him, and the words left him in a pathetic mumble. "No… master, please, no more."
"Yes, a little more, my heart." Angelus smiled, a hint of sweetness after what felt like centuries of cold. Kincaid cried out in pleading as he resumed his lazy strokes once more, and he could do nothing else but lay down and wait out the minutes.