EXECUTIVE'S BATHROOM
It was nearly 8 p.m. when the janitor pushed his cart onto the executive floor. The hallway gleamed like a hotel—glass walls, dim lights, marble so clean it felt illegal to walk on. He always hated cleaning here. Everything looked like it didn’t want to be touched.
Only the bathroom left.
He pushed open the door—and froze.
A man stood inside, shirtless. Muscles taut and gleaming under the cold downlights, like he’d just come from the steam room. He wore nothing but tight black briefs, soaked slightly at the waistband. His chest rose slow. Heavy. Confident. He wasn’t surprised to be seen.
He met the janitor’s gaze in the mirror.
“I didn’t know anyone was still up here,” the janitor said, his voice too small in the tiled room.
“I like staying late,” the man answered, eyes still fixed on their shared reflection. “Fewer eyes. More freedom.”
The janitor stepped inside, awkwardly parking his cart, trying not to stare. But it was impossible. The briefs the man wore clung to him—every curve, every outline visible. He was huge. Thick. Half-hard. He didn’t cover himself.
“You clean well,” the man said, lips curling slightly. “I’ve noticed you.”
The janitor flushed. “Just doing my job.”
The man turned slowly, finally facing him—not just in the mirror now. His body radiated heat. Real heat. Like standing too close to a boiler. He stepped forward, and the janitor saw it—the solid shape pushing out against the thin fabric of the briefs. Big. Heavy. Brazen.
“Bet you’re good with your hands,” the man added, voice low.
The janitor’s throat tightened. “Depends what I’m cleaning.”
The man laughed softly, stepping behind him now. Not touching, but so close the janitor could feel breath on his neck.
“I like a bit of mess,” the man whispered. “A good kind. The kind that doesn’t wipe away.”
The janitor’s hand gripped the edge of the sink. His heart thudded. He could see them again in the mirror—his own awkward stance, the other man’s body looming, briefs stretched tight and unforgiving. The shape of him, thick and curved, clearly not going away.
“Stay a little,” the man said, finally brushing a fingertip along the janitor’s lower back, slow. “Unless you’re scared.”
“I’m not,” the janitor said quickly—too quickly.
“Good,” the man smiled. “Because I’ve been thinking about this. You. For a while.”
The janitor finally looked up. Their eyes met again.
“You’ve got ten minutes before the next floor,” the man whispered, pressing his heat closer, the front of his briefs grazing the janitor’s hip. “Let’s make them count.”
The janitor didn’t move away.
He just nodded—slow, nervous, hard.
The mirror kept the secret.
For now.
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