Closing Arguments.

Tristan seemed tense when he introduced himself to the team. That was normal, I told myself. First day nerves. This was our first sales presentation, built around a pitch meant to convince, even though there was no real client. Training, they called it. Still, we were competing for the same account.

Tristan didn’t waste time. He didn’t soften anything. He went straight for the jugular.

His presentation was sharp—product recalculation, a new visual identity, the kind of closing argument that felt finished before it ended. He had the numbers, but more importantly, he had presence. Know-how backed by confidence is hard to argue with.

Going first is never easy. You set the bar. You also give the others something to steal from.

As the presentations continued, I felt the room recalibrate. People adjusted. Improved. Corrected. Being last meant risk. It could be a boost—ending strong—or a fall so visible it stayed with you long after the room emptied.

And I was last.

I gave my presentation. Tristan and the others listened carefully, but I could tell they were only measuring one thing—whether my delivery was superior to theirs. Interest in that room was conditional.

I leaned into cost. My angle was “if a client could reduce expenses and still expand,” that is, leverage. I brought in older product lines from 1986, reframed as retro packages, something that could double as home décor. I added recipes as part of the wrapping and barcodes to download into our phones. I made it cozy.

My pitch was simpler than the others. Less aggressive. But the idea of a package that dressed your kitchen made Tristan raise an eyebrow. Almost smile.

The boss noticed.

“David and Tristan,” she said. “You’ve got the account.”

That was when I realized the client wasn’t fake after all.

The workshop had been framed as an exercise, but the account was real. The boss liked my idea of a homey, decorative package—and the illusion of saving the client money—while Tristan’s approach ensured we actually made it.

We looked at each other. Instinct kicked in.

He was a businessman sharpened by creativity.
I was creatively anchored in service.

Together, we knew this wouldn’t stop with one client. The meeting finally wrapped up, leaving us drained and rushing against the clock. I hadn’t eaten a thing all day—no breakfast, no lunch—and my stomach was protesting loudly. I mentioned needing food, and Tristan asked if I’d actually tasted the product we were about to pitch. I realized I hadn’t, not recently, not ever.

We headed to the first-floor kitchen. It was a strange, hybrid space—part meeting room, part kitchen—where clients showcased the meals they wanted us to sell. This particular dish was already a known brand, but I needed a refresher. I’m usually the type to cook everything from scratch, but that’s not something you admit to clients.

Tristan decided to heat one serving in the microwave and the other in a pot on the stove. We ate, and it was genuinely good. We both agreed that the stove-heated version had a depth of flavor the microwave lacked.

“Right, so let’s get on it,” I said, wiping my mouth. “What first?”

“Are your lips real?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “What? How can lips not be real?”

Tristan reached out and poked my lower lip with his index finger. The touch was light but deliberate.

“Dude, my lips are real,” I said, swatting his hand away, trying to steer us back to business. “Can we get on with the charts and sales approaches?”

He wet his own lips slowly, his eyes locking onto mine. “Hold on. Close your eyes and tell me if it’s microwave or pot-warmed.”

I stared at him for a second, then sighed. “Fair enough.” I accepted the challenge, closing my eyes and waiting.

“Keep them closed,” he mumbled.

I felt the spoon at my lips first. I tasted, chewed, and swallowed. “Stove.”

Then came the second bite. He wasn’t as careful this time; a bit of sauce spilled over my lip. I instinctively went to lick it away, but so did he. “Did you just lick my lip?”

He stepped closer, invading my personal space just enough to make it dangerous. “We can try again. I can eat some and kiss you. That way, we also know how it affects our palate.”

I couldn’t believe this man. He was taking chances, pushing boundaries right here in the kitchen. And of course, by now, I was allowing it all to happen.

Tristan didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed my arm, his grip firm and urgent, pulling me toward the back of the kitchen. There was a small office space tucked away, dominated by a large armchair. He was impulsive, driven by a sudden, frantic energy that was nothing like the collected guy I’d seen making the presentation earlier.

“Come on, kiss me,” he urged, kicking the door shut behind us. “Don’t worry, no one comes back here.”

I looked at him, calculating. I knew this guy was competition, and if this was some corporate trap, the best way for me to approach it was to seize control. I reached for his belt and yanked his pants down before he could blink. If anyone was going to be exposed here, it was him.

Tristan didn’t protest. I maneuvered him into that large chair, positioning him so one leg rested on each armrest, leaving him completely open. I leaned in and went to work.

The man turned into a total pussy cat. He purred and hummed, making these short, sharp breathing noises. “Ooh, stop... stop, uff... be careful, careful.”

The rascal definitely hadn’t expected that. He tasted sweet and earthy, like sugar on a mushroom. I took my time, appreciating the tension in his inner thighs and the curve of his adorable, hairy, round butt.

“Fuck!” he gasped out, his head falling back. “I gotta be honest, that BJ was epic.” He was breathless, already pulling up his socks and scanning the floor for his left shoe. “Is your name really Clipart?”

I sat back, wiping my mouth. “No, my name is Jerpy. Jerpy Clipart. But they call me JC.”

Credits Picture: suits-undressing CUMM.co.UK