Office Conquest
The sterile air reeked of industrial disinfectant, a jarring counterpoint to the primal tension coiling between them. Simon Kensington-Morley, the 50-year-old CEO, was a ruin of his former self. His impeccably tailored charcoal suit—fabric worth more than Dean’s tuition—was rumpled and sweat-darkened, clinging to his powerful torso usually hidden beneath layers of bespoke armour. Silver streaks in his otherwise dark hair were plastered to his temples, the mature, handsome face etched with desperation instead of command. He braced against the sink, strong, well-maintained hands whitening on the porcelain edge, knuckles straining. Low, guttural moans escaped him, echoing off tiles as Dean’s relentless mouth worked him towards oblivion. Simon’s thighs—muscular beneath fine wool—quivered violently, a primal tremor signalling his impending surrender.
Just as Simon arched, muscles locking near release, Dean tore away with a predatory growl. The sudden absence was a shock. Simon slumped against the sink, gasping, his body jolting. He was achingly empty, his cock throbbing against the dense mat of dark chest hair visible through his half-unbuttoned shirt. His chest heaved erratically beneath the coarse hair, skin flushed and gleaming. The polished authority was gone, replaced by debauched vulnerability—a powerful build laid low, an authoritative presence rendered pliant.
Dean surveyed his handiwork, a wicked gleam in his unnervingly intense hazel eyes. His naturally athletic frame, honed by casual sports rather than obsessive training, dominated the cramped space even in repose. He wore faded jeans and a simple grey hoodie, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle. “Too easy,” he murmured, voice thick with dominance, the words resonating in Simon’s bones—a declaration of the power shift complete.
Before Simon could protest, Dean moved with casual strength. He gripped Simon’s hips—strong beneath the ruined suit—and spun him from the sink. Simon stumbled, legs weakened. Dean guided him back until his knees hit the toilet seat, then hooked hands under Simon’s trembling thighs and lifted. Simon landed with a soft thud on the cold tile, sprawled and blinking, the chill seeping through his thin shirt.
Dean knelt between Simon’s splayed legs, spreading them wider with proprietary ease. His gaze, dark and possessive, raked over the exposed form: the flushed skin, the heaving chest covered in coarse hair, the neglected, leaking cock. He leaned down, placing a final, electric kiss on its swollen head. With a wet pop, he pulled back, a predatory smirk replacing his earlier disarming smile on his open, expressive face.
“Dean... what are you—” Simon rasped, voice raw, eyes wide and pleading beneath silver-streaked brows.
Dean’s smirk sharpened. “Begging already?” he taunted, his low purr scraping Simon’s nerves. He clamped a calloused hand around Simon’s wrist—unyielding, grounding. “Shh,” Dean whispered, a command brooking no argument. “I’m not done with you yet.” The possessiveness sent fresh heat pooling low in Simon’s belly.
Dean tugged Simon flat on his back. The tiles chilled Simon’s spine beneath the thin shirt. Dean settled firmly between his thighs, spreading them wide. Simon’s cock twitched, a traitorous beacon. Dean loomed, blocking the light, his dark, intense eyes holding Simon captive.
“You’re so fucking hot like this,” Dean murmured, voice rough. His gaze traced the exposed throat, the heaving, hairy chest, the flat stomach, the trail leading down. “Laid out for me...” Dean’s fingers followed, trailing down Simon’s sternum, tracing ribs, brushing the coarse hair dusting his chest and stomach, eliciting shivers. “...begging for more.” His thumb brushed a nipple, drawing a sharp gasp. “Aren’t you?”
Simon could only nod, strangled.
Dean chuckled darkly. His fingers descended, skirting Simon’s cock, tracing the sensitive crease of his groin. Simon jerked. “Dean, please... Don’t tease me...” The plea was raw.
“Oh, I’m not teasing,” Dean promised darkly. His fingers, slick, pressed against Simon’s entrance. “I’m just getting started.”
“Fuck!” Simon shouted, hips jerking off the tile. “Dean, I need you... please...” Desperation cracked his voice.
Dean smirked, circling the tight ring. “You want my fingers?” he purred, leaning close, breath hot on Simon’s ear. “Or something more?” He rocked his hips, letting Simon feel the hard length beneath his faded jeans.
“Both,” Simon gasped, eyes wide and pleading. “I want it all... Please, Dean. Everything.”
“Good answer,” Dean whispered. He sank a finger deep inside.
Simon moaned, a soul-deep sound. His back arched violently off the floor, strong hands flying to grip Dean’s corded shoulders beneath the hoodie. “Oh god, Dean... yes...” The stretch burned, consumed by shocking pleasure.
Dean worked slowly, watching Simon’s face intently. “You’re so tight,” he murmured, breath hot on sweat-slicked skin. “But you’re taking me so well...” He crooked his finger.
Simon whimpered, hips rocking. “More... please... Another...”
Dean added a second finger, scissoring carefully. He kissed Simon’s sternum, tongue flicking a nipple. “Such a good fit,” Dean murmured. “Made for taking me.”
A third finger stretched Simon intensely. “Easy,” Dean soothed, though his own voice was thick. “Relax. Take it.” He worked patiently, then curled his fingers, pressing there.
“FUCK!” Simon convulsed, vision whiting out. “DEAN! Don’t stop! I’m so close...” Tears pricked his eyes.
Dean leaned back, fingers relentless. His other hand went to his belt. Simon watched, mesmerized, as Dean freed his thick, flushed cock. Dean fisted himself slowly, gaze locked on Simon’s wreckage.
“You want me to fuck you?” Dean asked gravelly.
The sight pushed Simon over. “Yes! Please, Dean... I need you inside me... Fuck me... Now!”
Dean pulled his fingers out, earning a whimper. He positioned himself, the thick head pressing Simon’s stretched entrance. He gripped Simon’s hips. “Beg for it,” he demanded. “Properly.”
Simon pressed his head back, baring his throat. “Please, Dean... Fuck me... Fill me up... Stretch me... Claim me... Make me yours... Please... I need you...”
Dean groaned, control fraying. “Fuck, Simon...” He pushed forward. Slowly. Inexorably.
Simon gasped as Dean breached him. The stretch was immense, a burning fullness. “Oh god... Dean... So... full...”
Dean paused, buried deep. He leaned down, capturing Simon’s lips in a fierce kiss. He pulled back, then thrust hard, setting a deep, relentless rhythm.
The friction was incredible. Simon cried out, meeting each thrust. Skin slapped, grunts, and moans filled the stall.
“You feel so good,” Dean growled between thrusts. “So fucking tight... hot... Mine.” A powerful surge of his hips punctuated each possessive word.
Simon could only moan, pleasure short-circuiting thought. “Dean... I’m gonna cum...”
Dean reached down, wrapping his calloused hand firmly around Simon’s slick cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. “Cum for me,” he commanded, voice rough. “Now. Let go.”
The command detonated Simon. His body arched rigidly, eyes rolling back. “DEAN!” he roared. Thick ropes pulsed over Dean’s hand, spattering Simon’s heaving, hairy chest and stomach.
The sight, the clenching heat, the cries—it shattered Dean. “Fuck, Simon!” he groaned, burying deep as his own release surged, pulsing hotly inside Simon, claiming him.
They stayed locked, trembling. Slowly, Dean pulled out, eliciting a whimper. Simon lay boneless on the tile, utterly wrecked—come streaking his hairy chest and stomach, skin flushed, eyes glazed. He looked thoroughly claimed.
Dean leaned down, kissing Simon’s swollen lips, surprisingly tender. He pulled back, a smug smirk on his expressive face. “You’re mine now,” he whispered, thumb brushing against Simon’s lip—a statement.
Simon blinked slowly, meeting Dean’s satisfied gaze. Weakly, he nodded. “Yours.”
Dean stood fluidly, pulling Simon up. Simon swayed. Wordlessly, they straightened clothes—tucking shirts, zipping trousers, smoothing rumpled, expensive fabric. Simon avoided the mirror as they adjusted their ties and ran their hands through their dishevelled, silver-streaked hair; profound satisfaction settled in Dean. He’d shattered the CEO’s authority, and Simon had begged.
They exchanged a charged glance. Dean opened the stall. The sterile office hallway waited. Simon’s mask of authority slipped back, but Dean saw the lingering flush, the daze, the tremble in his well-groomed hands as he fixed cufflinks.
Dean leaned close in the quiet corridor, voice an intimate murmur: “Next time, we’re doing this in your office.”
Simon’s step faltered. Shock, then undeniable arousal, flashed in his eyes. He met Dean’s gaze, no trace of authority. “Yes, Dean,” he replied, voice low with hungry anticipation.
Dean’s predatory grin widened. This was a threshold crossed. The tension pulsed between them, thick with the promise of conquest in Simon’s own domain. Dean held all the cards.
