John Morrison's hand rested cautiously on the brass door handle, even with nervous plastered on his face remaining perfection was key, shaking it off and turning the knob. Feet dragged him in, and he was backed up against the door, telling himself that this would be an okay meeting as his boss' gaze fell on him, his eyebrow quirked. The question forced him to come into the room entirely, and even he wasn't sure what he had been doing backed up against the door like a scared girl.

John stood in front of the desk, waiting for a confirmation that he could sit. He wasn't given the exact spot in a chair he had hoped for, and looked incredibly confused when he had been told to sit up on the desk. He stared behind his over sized Hollywood sunglasses in disbelief, but took a seat in the spot that had been cleared off for him directly in front of The Chairman.

He had a quick excuse for the shiver that shook his body when he felt the hand crawling up his thigh. Hiding behind Giorgio Armani's was no longer an option. Salvation ripped from his eyes, immediately attempting to look like the sudden feel up wasn't making his skin crawl and his stomach turn. He tossed his head up toward the ceiling, focusing on a tile like his life solely depended on it, getting fired would have been better than receiving lusty kisses over his perfect abs; the fear of being over weight, ugly and imperfect was suddenly a hope, he was praying for his gorgeous body to turn into something disgusting and deformed, he was praying for someone to walk in and put an end to this. For now, he would have to try and pretend that his boss didn't suddenly have a handful of his luscious hair and soon a mouthful of his lips and the invasion of his mouth that solely belonged to Mike Mizanin.

He was commanded to get off the table - God existed and it wasn't himself. He began to walk away, the saliva across his cement like abdomen turning cold and drying into his flesh. He wanted to vomit all over the floor, but that was a sure way to end up fired. He'd gotten through the worst of it - until his arm was grabbed and he was thrown up against the wall, his arms pinned over his head and the side of his face clinging to the wall, almost attempting to bury it there. He was silently begging that the sucking and sharp biting over his neck didn't become bruised, he pulled back at the feeling only to be brought back into it. His ear that hadn't been turning red from being so smashed into the wall became the next targeted victim. Sucking, biting, licking, he shivered and scrunched into himself, pretending it felt so good, trying to force himself to laugh like the way Miz did it.

Nothing seemed to get better. Especially when his arms finally got released, circulation came back to them as he shook his wrists back to mobility and wished he hadn't at the command to unclip his belt.