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“Something distracting you, Woodward?” Bernstein says archly, looking at Bob over his sheaf of notes.
Bob squirms in his seat. “No, sir.”
He isn’t distracted, really. He’s typed every word Bernstein dictated to him perfectly. He’s one of the fastest typists in the office - faster than Bernstein, even, and Bernstein never fails to remind Bob that he was the fastest copy-boy at the Star. It’s just that Bernstein has such a nice voice when he dictates stories, and every time he looks up from his notes to make sure Bob is keeping up Bob feels like he’s on fire. Bernstein never gives Bob his undivided attention like this. But the office is empty except for the two of them, because Bernstein asked Bob to stay late with him, and Bob can’t stop thinking about why.
Bob isn’t stupid. Everyone knows Bernstein has gone through the Post’s secretaries like wildfire since his divorce. Bob hasn’t heard any rumors about the copy boys, but alone like this with Bernstein watching him so intently, he’s starting to wonder.
He’s stopped typing.
Bernstein clicks his tongue. “You seem distracted.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re squirming.”
“Just - sitting too long,” Bob says, praying Bernstein won’t offer him the chance to stand up and stretch his legs. He’s hard as a rock beneath the desk, and he isn’t confident enough about the copy boy theory to risk Bernstein seeing and being scandalized - or worse, mocking his hair-trigger libido. Bob should be past random inappropriate erections by now, but being around Bernstein does something to him he can’t seem to get a handle on.
“I’m fine. Good to keep going, I mean,” he says, squeezing his thighs together in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure on his cock. This is his chance to prove himself; he can’t let his stupid attraction to Bernstein get in the way of doing his job well.
“Alright, then,” Bernstein says, and despite his clear indifference to Bob’s feigned discomfort, Bob feels a warm flush suffuse him at the fact that Bernstein evidently trusts him to take accurate dictation in spite of it. “New paragraph. Not much is yet known about the political ramifications of such a charge, comma, but inside sources say that Bob Woodward, comma Washington Post comma, is a bad liar and is currently hard in my chair at my desk, period. Got that?”
“Yes,” Bob manages, fingers moving across the typewriter keys without any input from his brain. At least he isn’t blushing; all the blood that might have reddened his cheeks has rushed instead to his cock at the realization that Bernstein knows - and, more than that, he seems pleased.
Bob doesn’t dare lift his eyes from the typewriter even as Bernstein leans a hip against the desk, jostling his neat stacks of papers. His voice is thick with smug exultation when he starts again, speaking extemporaneously and staring two burning holes into the side of Bob’s head.
“He’s not nearly as sneaky as he thinks he is and he has stared at my ass one too many times in the office, comma, so now I have to do something about it, period. He has been a very good boy and taken perfect dictation even while he squirms and looks like he wants me to bend him over this desk, period.”
Bob whines quietly under his breath and hopes the clacking of keys will cover it. No dice; Bernstein huffs a victorious laugh before continuing.
“But I won’t, because we’ve got a deadline to meet, don’t we? Can’t put the whole morning edition on hold just because little Bob Woodward wants me to fuck him. If he wants to come tonight, he’ll have to do it just like this.”
Bob whines louder, a strangled please, and waits, hands trembling, for Bernstein to keep going. He’s so focused on the paper in front of him, on getting Bernstein’s words right even without spoken punctuation, that he jumps in surprise when Bernstein’s hand lands on the nape of his neck, massaging and tugging at the strands of hair that brush his collar.
“He really has been so good for me,” Bernstein muses, even as his grip on Bob’s neck shifts to one of possessiveness and command. “Maybe if he stays good and comes just like this, and doesn’t make any mistakes, I’ll recommend to Bradlee that he’s got what it takes to be a real reporter. But he’d better hurry up and come, because I haven’t got all night.”
Damn not blushing; Bob’s cheeks are burning and his neck feels hot under Bernstein’s hand. He doesn’t want to come in his pants like a teenager, especially not in front of Bernstein, but his thighs have spread wider of their own accord and his toes are flexing in his loafers like they always do when his orgasm is near. He doesn’t want to come, but he needs to, and Bernstein wants him to, and pretty soon his hands will be shaking too much to type anyway…
Bernstein leans down to murmur in his ear, low and chiding. “You’re lucky you’re so pretty, kid; I don’t usually let copy boys waste my time like this. Be a good boy now and come for me.”
Bob barely pulls his hands off the keys in time before they’re clenching, spasming, as he curls in on himself and his cock jerks within his slacks, smearing come over his thighs and underwear. The sound he makes is humiliating, like a leaking bike tire, but Bernstein only shushes him and pets his neck soothingly until his breathing settles once more.
“Fuck,” Bob says, scrubbing at his eyes and trying to stretch the tension out of his legs. His underwear is sticky; he needs to go home and change. But the night isn’t over.
Carl plucks the paper from the typewriter and gives it a once-over. “Perfect copy. I should get carpal tunnel more often if this is how well you take dictation.”
“Fuck you.” Bob shakes his head and laughs, reluctantly, when Carl drops an apologetic kiss to the tip of his ear. “I’m going to have to retype that whole thing.”
“That’s the business, kid,” Carl sing-songs, straightening again to lean back against Ken’s desk and return to his notes. “From the top, and then we can go home and get you out of those pants. ‘Former White House counsel Charles Colson pleaded guilty today to…’”