My seven thirty is half an hour late. I fucking hate doing business with anyone who isn’t punctual but dear old Dad has asked me to meet with the head of promotions for one of our leading suppliers, who just happens to be a female and also the daughter of the chairman of the company. It sounds more like two old farts arranging a marriage than it does having their trusted employees form an alliance for future deals, but what Dad wants, Dad gets.

It’s work. When is work ever supposed to be fun? I show up at nine, finish at five, and leave the building and all thoughts of work behind. It’s a pretty sweet gig for someone who still doesn’t know what they want to do when they grow up, and it allows me to pay for my exorbitant lifestyle in the city I love, so what is there to complain about?

Unless work starts to encroach on my personal life, like it has tonight. Chase and several of our other friends are currently enjoying my Rangers tickets, and I’m here, being stood up by a work meeting. I scroll through my phone while I wait, order another scotch, and decide it’s been a while since I’ve tormented little Pop Tart. I search our last texts. Messaging her out of the blue seems desperate. I’ll just shake things up a little with the gift that keeps giving. I open the We-Vibe app and hit Pop Tart’s play list. Usually when I do this shit it gets ignored, but today, after playing my personal favorite, Nine Inch Nails “Closer,” I get a report that she’s hitting a few buttons of her own. Holy fucking shit. Pop Tart finally caved.

I shift in my seat and adjust my cock, because it’s growing hard just thinking about her using a vibrator I gave her. Knowing Poppy, though, she’s likely had enough of me messing with her and has put the damn thing in the microwave.

My seven thirty arrives, and I set the phone down, and greet her with a handshake. She’s a hot blonde with tits likely paid for by Daddy. There’s not a single line on her face, and I’m betting those big pouty lips are bursting with filler. Even with all that, I’d still fuck her, but I’m trying this new thing where I don’t sleep with co-workers or business associates. I’ve already filled my quota for this year, and Dad was none too happy about having to pay his former receptionist a severance package when he caught the two of us burning the midnight oil in his office. He has a firm policy on zero office romances. Unfortunately, I had a firm cock whenever I looked at his receptionist. Something had to give.

The server comes to take our order, and shortly afterward drinks arrive. Ah, alcohol. It may be the only thing keeping me from stabbing myself in the throat after listening to Kimberly drone on about her “awesome” life as a Manhattan socialite.

I order another whiskey and our food arrives. Kimberly takes that moment to excuse herself to use the ladies’ room. Like a gentleman, I stand when she does, but my eyes are on my phone before she even gets three feet from the table. The app tells me that Poppy has now been operating the vibe manually for fifteen minutes. That little minx.

Because I’m an asshole, I can’t help but text.

Me: Miss me?

It takes a beat for her to respond, which makes me think she’s really into masturbation.

Poppy: If by "miss you" you mean "hope I never hear from you again," then yes. Yes, I do.

Me: How are my goodies treating you?

Poppy: Oh, they make great cat scratchers for Sam, Dean, and Cas.

Me: It’s not weird at all that you named your pussies after adult men from a TV show.

Poppy: What do you want, Leo?

I flick over to the app and toy with it a little. Instead of setting the vibration to music, I set it to the highest speed. It’s pretty quiet from her end for a few minutes but I check my screen constantly. Kimberly returns from the bathroom and gives me an uncertain smile. “Is something wrong with your food?”

I glance down at my untouched plate. “No, I was waiting for you. Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom. Start without me.”

I don’t relish the idea of getting up, but hey, I’m already there. My cock is rock hard and begging to be released, and I can’t concentrate on jack-shit right now. Kimberly’s gaze shoots straight toward the bulge in my pants, and ordinarily I’d be all for signaling the waiter for the check and making her come against my hand in the back of an Uber on the way to her place, but I’m tired after a long day, and I don’t feel like sticking it to my client and pissing off Dad.

I don’t need him riding my ass right now. So, I head to the bathroom, lock myself in the cubicle, and free my junk from the confines of my boxers.

Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I pull out my phone and dial Poppy’s number as I stroke. She lets it ring. I call again, all the while I’m beating my meat, and when she finally picks up and yells, “What?” into the mouthpiece, I grin.

“Pop Tart,” I say with a strained voice.

“What do you want, Leo?”

“Where are you?” It comes out as more of a groan than a question.

“I’m in bed,” she says, slightly breathless.

“Mmm, doing what?”

There’s a pause, and she clears her throat. “Are you okay? You sound kind of weird.”

“Oh, I’m good. I’m fucking fantastic,” I groan.

“Well you sound like a creeper, so I’m going to go.”

“Wait,” I say, and stroke myself faster.

“What?”

I choose the first thing that comes into my head. “The rehearsal dinner. When do we have to be there?”

Another long pause. “All the information on the wedding—including what time you need to have Chase at the end of the aisle on the big day—is in the packet I sent to your office, and if you happen to have misplaced it already, you can also find everything in the email I sent today. Now quit bothering me. Okay? Bye now.”

I don’t even bother hanging up the phone, I just groan into the receiver, and the strangest thing is that I could swear she doesn’t actually hang up. She’s eavesdropping. Apparently, that’s not the only thing she’s dropping because there’s a squeak and a bang as she drops the phone, and then a loud exclamation of “fuck” right as I shoot my load into the toilet.