Marcus and the Himbo Favor gets a promotion to Chief Orgasm Officer

Monday morning arrived under a sky the color of polished steel. The hung himbo who had once been called Marcus Sucrerie woke in the guest suite at Ingrid’s estate already hard, the layered green-and-gold favors warm and permanent against his throat. The fog in his head had thickened overnight into a comfortable, permanent haze. Complex thoughts simply failed to form. What remained was simple and bright: big cock, strong body, follow orders, make the women come.

He sat up. The sheet tented obscenely over the thick shaft that now measured well beyond anything ordinary. Muscle filled his chest and shoulders in heavy, pleasing curves. When he stood, the weight of his cock swung and slapped lightly against his thigh, a constant reminder of purpose.

Tom stirred on the adjacent mattress, the tiny smooth mound between his legs already twitching from residual sensitivity. Two soft pink-favored boys—lace panties still on, light makeup refreshed—rose with pretty, vacant smiles and adjusted themselves. Their large cocks strained the white fabric, but their posture stayed soft and eager to please.

Sandra entered with Claire and Lena from R&D. Ingrid followed, already dressed in a tailored black suit that somehow looked more dominant than any gown.

“Final conditioning before the office,” Lena said, tablet in hand. She moved down the line of hung himbos and fastened one last gold-heavy strand around each neck, lingering on the broad-chested man in the center.

“State your name and function,” she instructed.

The hung himbo blinked once, the gold favor settling deeper.

“Marcus,” he said, voice slow and deep. “Hung himbo. Make the women come.”

“Full title going forward,” Ingrid corrected.

Marcus’s brow furrowed for half a second as the conditioning supplied the words.

“Marcus. Chief Orgasm Officer. Big cock. Ready to make the female leadership come.”

“Perfect,” Ingrid said. “That’s the baseline for your new role.”

They were dressed with deliberate care. The soft boys received tailored shirts and trousers that still allowed easy access, lace panties underneath. Tom was given simple dark slacks and a shirt that emphasized how little remained between his legs. The hung himbos—Marcus included—were dressed in well-cut suits that somehow still advertised the thick bulges beneath. No underwear. The fabric tented shamelessly over Marcus’s heavy cock.

Transport took them to the Reilly Industries campus. The lobby was already busy. Employees glanced, then stared. Several women smiled with open recognition when they saw the tall, muscular himbo with the unmistakable outline in his trousers. The favors at the men’s throats caught the light like quiet badges of ownership.

Ingrid led the group straight to the executive floor. The boardroom had been cleared of its usual long table and replaced with a semicircle of comfortable chairs, low padded benches, and a central platform covered in soft black leather. A discreet plaque on the wall already read:

**Chief Orgasm Officer – Marcus – On-Call Suite**

Sandra addressed the small assembly of female leadership already waiting—department heads, two board members, Ingrid herself, and a handful of senior managers.

“Effective immediately, Marcus is appointed Chief Orgasm Officer. His sole corporate function is to provide orgasms to female leadership on demand, in whatever configuration is required. The remaining hung himbos serve as support and overflow. Soft boys provide variety and visual contrast. Tiny boys handle cleaning and public contrast reminders. All favors remain active and self-reinforcing.”

Marcus stood on the platform where he was pointed, suit jacket open, the heavy outline of his cock unmistakable. The fog made the new title feel natural. Chief Orgasm Officer. Marcus. Make the women come. Stay hard. Simple.

Ingrid took the first official use.

She seated herself in the central chair, skirt already raised, and crooked a finger. “Marcus. Now.”

Marcus stepped forward, freed the thick cock from his trousers, and sank to his knees between her thighs without being told. The first long lick drew a satisfied sound from her. He worked steadily—tongue broad and obedient, lips sealed around her clit when she guided him, two thick fingers sliding inside when she requested them. The himbo conditioning kept his focus absolute. No wandering thoughts. Only the taste of her, the sound of her breathing, the need to bring her over the edge.

She came with her hand tight in his hair, thighs closing around his head. Marcus stayed in place until she released him, chin shining, then stood when ordered. His cock jutted heavy and dark, untouched so far.

“On your back, Marcus,” Ingrid said.

He lay on the leather platform. Ingrid straddled him, took the thick shaft in one hand, and sank down in a single slow motion until she was fully seated. The stretch drew a low moan from her. Marcus thrust upward in the steady, powerful rhythm the conditioning preferred—deep, consistent, no wasted motion. Ingrid rode him at her own pace, using the new muscular strength in his hips, until a second orgasm rolled through her. Only then did she give the quiet permission for him to finish.

“Come, Marcus.”

Marcus came hard, flooding her in thick pulses while the watching women murmured approval. She stayed seated until the last aftershock passed, then rose and smoothed her skirt.

“Effective,” she said. “The rest of you may schedule time with Marcus directly or through Sandra. Support himbos are available for simultaneous or sequential use. Soft boys and the tiny one remain on permanent assist.”

The morning session began in earnest.

One by one the senior women claimed time with the Chief Orgasm Officer. Marcus was rotated between mouths, cunts, and the occasional soft boy who needed to be filled while a woman sat on the soft boy’s face. The himbo fog kept every act simple and intense. When a woman wanted him to fuck her over the back of a chair, he did it with long, powerful strokes until she finished. When she wanted him on his back again so she could control the depth, he held position and thrust only when told. When two women wanted him at once—one riding his cock, one sitting on his face—he simply delivered, tongue and hips working in the same steady, obedient rhythm.

Between primary uses the soft boys were bent over benches and taken by Marcus or the other himbos on direct order, their pretty moans providing background while the tiny-cocked men (Tom especially) were kept on their knees to lick clean every cock and every well-used hole. SPH commentary flowed naturally from the women.

“Look at the difference. Marcus’s cock is thick enough to make the Chief Orgasm Officer title meaningful. That little button only gets to clean up afterward.”

Tom accepted every word with the same dazed compliance the red favors enforced. His tiny mound stayed flushed and leaking from constant light torment, never allowed a proper climax of his own.

By midday Marcus had lost count of the orgasms he had delivered. The gold-green favors kept him hard through every round, refractory time reduced to almost nothing. Each time he emptied into a woman or a soft boy the relief was massive and simple; within minutes the heavy cock rose again, ready for the next request. The other hung himbos worked parallel stations—couches, a second platform, even the polished conference table that had been pushed against the wall—ensuring no senior woman waited long.

Lena circulated with her tablet, quietly documenting.

“Himbo metrics holding at peak on Marcus. Verbal responses limited to acknowledgment and service phrases. Physical output excellent. The COO designation is reinforcing the conditioning further—every successful orgasm delivered deepens the compliance loop.”

Afternoon brought a formal demonstration for a wider group of mid-level female managers who had been invited to observe the new corporate resource. Marcus was placed on the central platform on his back, cock standing thick and glistening from recent use. A rotating series of women took their turns—some riding, some ordering him onto all fours so they could be fucked from behind while bracing on the platform, some simply sitting on his face while a soft boy rode the heavy cock. The soft boys themselves were used as intermediate tools: a woman would have Marcus fuck a soft boy while she ground against the soft boy’s lace-covered cock or sat on the soft boy’s face, creating chains of sensation that always ended with the woman’s orgasm as the primary goal.

Tom was kept visible throughout, either licking the base of Marcus’s cock while it was buried in someone or presenting his tiny smooth mound for casual comparison and light torment. Every time a woman finished on Marcus she would often pause to deliver a few lines of contrast humiliation aimed at the shrunken men before moving on.

The himbo conditioning continued to deepen with every use. By late afternoon Marcus’s internal monologue had reduced to a short, repeating loop:

*Marcus. Hard. Ready. Make her come. Stay hard. Make the next one come.*

When Ingrid returned for a final personal session she found him exactly as required—suit trousers open, thick cock rising the moment she entered the room, eyes soft and attentive.

She dismissed the other women with a quiet word and locked the boardroom door.

“On the platform, Marcus. Back. Knees bent.”

Marcus obeyed. Ingrid undressed with unhurried precision, then climbed onto him, taking the heavy shaft to the hilt in one smooth descent. She leaned forward, braced on his broad chest, and spoke in the calm tone of someone issuing permanent policy.

“You are Marcus, Chief Orgasm Officer of Reilly Industries. Your calendar will be managed by Sandra. Any female member of senior leadership may request you at any time during business hours. You will remain in the himbo state permanently. You will keep that cock ready. You will deliver as many orgasms as required. Soft boys and support himbos will assist when volume demands it. The tiny ones will continue in their cleaning and contrast roles. You will not question, plan, or resist. You will simply perform.”

Marcus thrust upward when she indicated, the powerful rhythm automatic.

“Yes, ma’am. Marcus makes the women come.”

She rode him until she finished once, then a second time, then gave permission for his own release.

“Come for me, Marcus.”

Marcus came with a deep, grateful groan, flooding her while the favors pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Ingrid stayed seated until she was satisfied, then rose and dressed again.

“Report here at eight-thirty tomorrow. Sandra will have your first block of appointments. The soft boys assigned to you will arrive at the same time. Tom remains your primary cleaner. Any questions?”

Marcus looked up at her, thick cock still twitching against his stomach, the himbo fog complete and comfortable.

“No, ma’am. Marcus is ready.”

Ingrid smiled, the expression small and proprietary.

“Exactly.”

She left him on the platform. Sandra entered a few minutes later with a tablet already displaying a color-coded schedule. The rest of the hung himbos were brought in for a brief final briefing. Soft boys adjusted their lace. Tom knelt in his designated place.

Sandra read the first appointments aloud.

“Nine o’clock, Legal—two partners, sequential. Ten-thirty, Marketing leadership, group session. Twelve-fifteen, working lunch with the board subcommittee—Marcus under the table and on it. Afternoon block open for drop-ins. End of day report to Ingrid for personal use and overnight conditioning reinforcement.”

Marcus nodded. The information settled into the simple framework the favors preferred. Times. Women. Make them come. Stay hard between.

The other himbos received similar support schedules. Soft boys were assigned as permanent visual and sexual variety. Tiny boys were given cleaning stations and public contrast duties throughout the executive floors.

Evening settled over the campus. Most staff had left. Marcus was led back to a newly designated suite on the executive floor—a comfortable room with a large bed, mirrored walls, a private shower, and a small adjacent alcove for Tom and the two soft boys assigned to him. Fresh gold-green favors waited on a tray. Sandra fastened one more around Marcus’s neck before leaving.

The final wave of conditioning was gentle and absolute. Any remaining fragment of the old ambitious new hire dissolved completely. In its place stood Marcus: broad, heavily muscled, permanently thick-cocked, thoughts reduced to service and sensation, existence defined by the next orgasm he was ordered to deliver.

He showered, the heavy cock remaining half-hard under the water. The soft boys cleaned him with careful, pretty mouths afterward. Tom licked the residual mess from the shower floor and from Marcus’s balls with the same dazed obedience as always. Then they settled onto the bed as directed—Marcus on his back in the center, soft boys curled against his sides, Tom at the foot.

The suite lights dimmed on a timer. Somewhere in the building the last female executives finished their work and left, many of them already scheduling time with Marcus for the days ahead.

Marcus closed his eyes. The favors hummed in quiet, permanent contentment. Tomorrow the calendar would fill. Women would arrive. He would stay hard, follow every instruction, and deliver orgasm after orgasm with the simple, powerful body the conditioning had built.

The party favors had done their work.

The hung himbo rise was complete.

And Marcus, Chief Orgasm Officer of Reilly Industries, was ready for permanent duty.