Bro-Forma Statements: Bryce Part 1

This fictional story features only adult characters (18+) and portrays consensual interactions throughout.

If you haven't already, read what went down with Tristan in the Gym locker.

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If you’ve been on the floor long enough, you know Bryce.

Senior Associate. Loud, ripped, confident in that way only guys who’ve never known rejection can be. He plays it smooth in meetings, but behind closed doors? Total chaos. Always got the funniest take in the group chat. Always starting shit. And always, always, saying the exact thing HR wishes you wouldn’t.

“Dan, suck my dick,” he once told me across the bullpen while we were reviewing a leverage model. Loud enough for the intern to look up from the copier. And he didn’t flinch. Just tossed it out like a casual “pass the reports.”

It’s like his catchphrase. I’ve heard it in team meetings, walking out of elevators, once while washing my face next to him in the locker room. It’s never not funny. He gets away with it because it is a joke. Or at least, everyone pretends it is. That’s Bryce’s magic, say the wildest shit, grin like a frat boy, and somehow you’re still everyone’s favorite.

He’s also shredded. Always “between bulks,” as he puts it. Thick arms, trim waist, chest that fills out every button-down. Hair buzzed tight. Ass like a fucking shelf under those tailored pants. And yeah - I notice. We all do. He gives off that energy where you either wanna be him or suck the cocky right out of him.

He and I? We go way back. Been on the same team since I started. And yeah, we joke around. Say filthy shit. Nothing serious. I give it back as good as I get. The game’s been going on for years. Until this Friday.

It was supposed to be a normal night. Happy hour ended early. A few of us hit beers and sliders with the juniors around 7. By 9:30, the whole squad had dipped. But our VP...classic overachiever mode dragged Bryce and me back to the office. Said the hedge fund deck needed cleanup before Monday. “Quick polish,” he claimed. A few comps, cleanup on historicals, tweak the narrative on our alpha capture and he left leaving us to do the work. That's just corporate life.

We were like, whatever. Finish it, head out, maybe hit one more bar.

But by 11:30 , it was still just us. Lights dim. Office empty. My shirt was clinging to me under the AC, and Bryce had stripped down to just his undershirt. You could see his chest through it, sweat-darkened around the pecs.

I went to grab a printout and crouched down near my desk to tie my shoe - again. Those laces come loose every hour, I swear. I muttered under my breath, “Fucking hate these,” and leaned forward, fumbling with the loop.

That’s when I saw him.

He was closer than before. Like, way closer.

I didn’t even hear him walk over. I just noticed suddenly that he was standing directly in front of me. Grey dress pants. Stretched tight across his legs. That sharp center crease hugging his quad like it was painted on. His bulge sat heavy behind the fly, barely contained by the fabric. You know that thick, soft kind of hang some guys have when they’re not hard but definitely not small? Yeah. That.

I didn’t move. Not immediately. Just stayed crouched, one hand on my laces, the other resting on my knee, like if I stayed still long enough this would just be another Bryce bit. Just another fucked-up locker room moment we’d laugh off later.

Then I heard his voice.

“About time I got you on your knees, Dan.”

I looked up.

He had that same grin he always did. That playful, I-dare-you smirk that he’d worn every time he told me to suck his dick and laughed it off. But this time it hit different. We were alone. Office quiet. Nobody around to wink at. No audience.

“Easy,” I said, smirking back. “I’m just tying my damn shoes.”

He shrugged. “That what we’re calling it now?”

I didn’t stand. Didn’t move. Just looked up at him, still crouched. My eye level was right at his fly.

“You’ve been talking shit for months,” I said. “Always telling me to suck you off. Maybe it’s time you followed through.”

His brow went up. “You serious?”

“I dare you,” I said. “Whip it out.”

Bryce let out a low laugh. “No chance.”

“You scared?” I tilted my head. “I get it. Big talker. Can’t deliver.”

That did it.

He muttered, “Fuck you,” under his breath, but reached down anyway. Unzipped slowly, like he was daring himself. Then he slipped his hand inside and adjusted something like he was testing the weight. He didn’t pull it out. Just let me see the outline behind his underwear. It was thick even like that. Dense. Obvious.

Then I said it. The line that tipped it.

“If you actually pull your cock out in this office, right now, with the CCTV rolling...I’ll suck it. Right here. No questions asked.”

He stared at me.

I was still crouched. Looking up. My neck was tilted, but I held his gaze.

Bryce undid the top button of his slacks. No hesitation. Slid them down his thighs.

Thicker than I expected; hairy, solid, gym-cut legs that looked like they could crush a set of squats without breaking form.

Then he hooked his thumbs under his waistband.

And dragged them down.

His cock spilled out. Just like that. No buildup, no warning. It hung low, half-hard, heavy, with a curve that made me blink twice. The head flushed already, thick vein running the length. There was something so casual about the way he just stood there, letting it swing free. Like this was a flex he’d been dying to make real.

I stared.

Said nothing for a second.

Then laughed. A little breathless.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bryce,” I muttered. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

He just looked down at me. Smirking again.

“Dan,” he said, voice low, like he was still half-laughing. “You’ve been talking a lot of shit.”

Then he glanced down at himself, at the thick weight hanging between his legs. “So go on, bro. It's out now”

He met my eyes.

“Suck my dick.”


Find out here if I actually blow Bryce.