Storage Room Surrender
The charged promise hanging between them after leaving the bathroom proved impossible to ignore. Throughout the morning, Dean found his focus fractured, Simon’s whispered “Yes, Dean” echoing in his mind like a litany, fueling a restless anticipation that gnawed at him with each passing hour. He’d replayed the CEO’s submission in the sterile bathroom—the way Simon’s silver-streaked dark hair had clung damply to his temples as authority had dissolved into desperate pleas, the dense mat of dark chest hair visible through his half-unbuttoned shirt, the raw vulnerability in his mature, handsome face—until it became a visceral pulse beneath Dean’s own skin. Every spreadsheet blurred as he recalled Simon’s powerful torso trembling under his touch. Every email, spreadsheet, and meeting agenda blurred into insignificance. All he could see was Simon yielding, again and again.
The office hummed with its usual mid-morning drone—keyboard clatter, hushed phone negotiations, the distant whir of the coffee machine—but to Dean, it felt like static. His colleagues moved in predictable patterns, oblivious to the tectonic shift that had occurred just hours earlier. He watched Simon’s office door like a hawk, noting every flicker of movement behind the frosted glass. The CEO had emerged earlier, crisp in his charcoal-tailored suit, issuing directives with clipped efficiency. But Dean knew. He’d seen the faint tremor in Simon’s well-maintained hand as he’d straightened his tie and his expensive watch in the elevator mirror. He’d caught the fractional hesitation before Simon’s CEO mask slid perfectly back into place. That tiny crack was everything.
The midday office bustle became mere background noise as Dean watched the clock, its digital numbers crawling with agonising slowness. The memory of Simon—debauched, trembling, and utterly surrendered on the cold tiles—hardened his resolve into something sharp and predatory. He leaned back in his chair, faded jeans stretching over his naturally athletic build, worn sneakers planted firmly. His expressive face, usually lit by a disarming smile, now held unnerving intensity as he tracked the clock.
Lunch break couldn’t come soon enough; Simon might be back at his desk, projecting icy CEO authority to the world, but Dean knew the truth simmering beneath the surface, a banked fire waiting for his spark. When Simon’s gaze darted toward the door—not with CEO scrutiny but primal anticipation-Dean’s latent confidence solidified. He stood, lean muscle evident beneath his dark cotton shirt. The CEO was his, claimed on unforgiving porcelain, and it was time to reinforce that ownership somewhere far more satisfying, far more dangerous than a bathroom stall. The sterile vulnerability of the bathroom had been a beginning. Now, Dean craved the thrill of conquest in a space Simon ruled.
He leaned back in his ergonomic chair, the leather creaking softly. His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the faux-wood grain of his desk, the sound lost in the ambient noise. Across the bullpen, Sarah from Marketing laughed at something, the sound gratingly cheerful. Dean barely registered it. His gaze was fixed on the sleek chrome clock mounted on the far wall, each tick resonating like a countdown. His mind was a whirlwind of images: Simon’s flushed skin under fluorescent lights, the choked gasp when Dean’s teeth grazed his shoulder, the way his body had arched, seeking more. The phantom scent of Simon’s expensive cologne mixed with sweat and disinfectant seemed to cling to him. He shifted, the fabric of his trousers suddenly too restrictive, the memory sending a fresh wave of heat pooling low in his gut. He wanted more. Needed more, needed to see that control shatter again, needed to feel Simon unravel completely under his hands. This time, he wouldn’t be interrupted by the cold practicality of a bathroom floor. This time, he’d claim his victory properly.
Dean’s eyes flicked toward Simon’s office again. The older man was seated at his imposing desk, framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city skyline. His focus seemed entirely on the financial report spread before him, his Montblanc pen poised. His charcoal suit was impeccable, his silver hair perfectly groomed. But Dean saw what others missed. He saw the tension coiling in Simon’s shoulders, the unnatural stillness of his posture. He saw the way Simon’s gaze, sharp and assessing one moment, would occasionally dart toward the door—not with CEO scrutiny, but with a flicker of something far more primal: anticipation. Or was it apprehension? A delicious mix of both, Dean decided. A slow, predatory smirk tugged at Dean’s lips as he stood, the movement fluid and deliberate. He smoothed his dark shirt, the cotton whispering against his skin, and made his way toward the CEO’s office, his stride unhurried but purposeful.
The short walk felt charged. He passed Janet, Simon’s assistant, who offered a polite, distracted smile as she juggled two ringing phones. Dean nodded curtly, his focus unwavering. The frosted glass door to Simon’s domain loomed. He knocked lightly on the doorframe, the sound crisp in the relative quiet of the executive corridor.
Simon looked up. His expression shifted with startling speed: the professional neutrality of the CEO melted away, replaced by a heat that seemed to radiate from his core. His eyes, usually cool and assessing, darkened, fixing on Dean with an intensity that made the air crackle. “Dean,” he said, his voice low and measured, the practised CEO cadence still there, but beneath the surface, Dean detected the faintest tremor, a vibration of the tension thrumming through him. “What can I do for you?” The formality of the question was a thin veneer over the raw current running between them.
Dean stepped inside, the thick carpet muffling his footsteps. He closed the heavy oak door behind him with a soft, definitive click that sealed them off from the outside world. The spacious office felt suddenly intimate, the air thick with unsaid things. “I was thinking,” Dean began, his tone deceptively casual, leaning back slightly against the closed door, hands in his pockets, “that we could... continue our conversation from earlier.” He paused, letting his gaze travel slowly over Simon, from the loosened knot of his tie to the white-knuckled grip on his pen. “Somewhere a little more private.” The emphasis on ‘private’ was a velvet-covered command.
Simon’s breath hitched audibly. His eyes flickered toward the window wall. The blinds were drawn against the midday sun, but narrow slivers of light sliced through, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. They offered a degree of privacy, but the vastness of the glass was undeniable. “Here?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper now, the CEO’s facade crumbling further. A bead of sweat traced his jawline below his silver-streaked hair.
Dean shook his head, his smirk widening into something feral. “No.” The single syllable was dismissive, final. “Too risky. Too... exposed.” He pushed off the door, taking a step closer to the desk. The scent of Simon’s sandalwood cologne and something uniquely his – warm skin, faint starch–filled Dean’s senses. “Follow me.” It wasn’t a request. It was an order, wrapped in the promise of exactly what Simon both craved and feared.
Without waiting for a response, Dean turned and walked out of the office. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He could feel Simon’s presence behind him, a tangible force of heat and conflicted desire. He led the older man down a quiet, utilitarian hallway, past the brightly lit break room where the murmur of conversation and the smell of reheated lunches spilled out. He ignored the curious glance from Kyle, an IT specialist, who was microwaving something pungent. Dean’s destination was further down, near the fire exit stairwell: a narrow door marked ‘Storage – Supplies’. It was rarely used, mainly serving as a storage space for overflow paper, toner cartridges, and forgotten presentation boards.
He opened the door, the hinges groaning softly in protest. Inside, it was cramped and dim, illuminated only by a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Shelves lined the walls, stacked high with boxes and cleaning supplies, leaving a narrow aisle. Dust motes danced in the weak light. The air smelled faintly of cardboard and industrial cleaner. He gestured wordlessly for Simon to step inside. The older man hesitated on the threshold, his CEO instincts screaming at the sheer impropriety, the risk. His eyes darted around the confined space, taking in the cramped shelves, the utilitarian bleakness, the utter lack of dignity in the setting. For a heartbeat, Dean wondered if Simon’s resolve would break, if the mantle of authority would reassert itself. But then, with a visible intake of breath, Simon stepped forward. The movement wasn’t hesitant; it was resigned, almost eager in its submission. He walked into the dimness, his shoulders slightly slumped. Dean followed him in, closing the door firmly behind them. The click of the lock engaging echoed like a gunshot in the small space.
Darkness, thick and velvety, enveloped them, punctuated only by the thin sliver of light bleeding under the door and the weak glow from the single bulb. The air was instantly thick with anticipation, heavy with the scent of dust and their own rapidly escalating tension. Silence reigned, broken only by the ragged symphony of their breathing – Simon’s slightly faster, shallower; Dean’s deeper, controlled. Dean stepped closer, the confined space forcing their proximity. He crowded Simon back against a sturdy metal supply desk shoved against the far wall, its surface scarred and stained. Simon’s back hit the cold metal with a soft thud, his breath catching.
Dean reached out. His fingers, cool despite the heat in the room, brushed against the silk of Simon’s tie. He didn’t fumble. With deliberate slowness, he tugged the knot loose, the silk whispering as it slid free. He let the tie drop to the dusty floor, a splash of expensive fabric against the concrete. “You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?” Dean murmured, his voice a low, intimate vibration in the darkness, laced with knowing amusement. His other hand settled on Simon’s hip, fingers digging in possessively through the fine wool of his suit pants.
Simon swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet. His hands trembled visibly where they rested uselessly at his sides. He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them, meeting Dean’s gaze in the gloom. The raw need there was breathtaking. “Yes,” he admitted, the word escaping on a shaky breath, barely audible. It was a complete surrender, stripping away any pretence of control. “All day.”
Dean’s lips curved into a predatory smile. He leaned in, his breath hot against Simon’s ear, causing the older man to shiver violently. “Good.” The word was a purr. “Because I have too.” He pressed his body flush against Simon’s, letting him feel the hard evidence of his own arousal straining against his trousers. The heat, the pressure, the sheer claiming presence of him pinned Simon against the cold desk. “Now,” Dean commanded, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that brooked no argument, “bend over the desk.”
Simon’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise, perhaps even fear, crossing his face. But the hesitation was fleeting, consumed by the overwhelming tide of need Dean had unleashed. He turned around slowly, his movements stiff with a mixture of apprehension and desire. His hands, still trembling, gripped the cold, chipped edge of the metal desk. He bent forward, his spine forming a graceful, vulnerable curve. The fine fabric of his suit jacket stretched taut across his shoulders. He presented himself, utterly exposed, the powerful CEO reduced to pliant submission in a dusty storage closet. The sight was profoundly erotic – the stark contrast of his expensive attire, the vulnerable position, the absolute surrender.
Dean’s breath quickened, a sharp intake mirroring the sudden, painful throb of his cock. He stepped closer, the confined space making the movement intimate, inevitable. His hands slid over the curve of Simon’s ass, feeling the muscle tense beneath the wool, before gripping the waistband of his slacks and boxers. In one swift, decisive motion, he pulled them down to Simon’s knees. The cool air of the closet kissed Simon’s exposed skin, eliciting another shiver, a gasp muffled against his own arm.
Dean’s fingers traced the newly exposed curve of Simon’s ass, a possessive exploration. He teased him, fingertips ghosting over sensitive skin, before slipping deliberately between his cheeks to find his entrance. Simon gasped, his body tensing, muscles locking as Dean pressed the pad of his finger firmly against the tight ring of muscle. “You’re so tight,” Dean murmured, his voice rough with desire, thick with anticipation. He pressed inward, slowly, relentlessly, breaching the resistance. Simon whimpered, a high, needy sound, pushing back instinctively against the intrusion. Dean worked him open with slow, deliberate strokes, one finger at a time, then adding a second, stretching him. “But you’re going to take me so well, aren’t you?” The question was rhetorical, a statement of intent laced with dark promise. He leaned down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the knobs of Simon’s spine, feeling the tremor that ran through the older man.
“Yes,” Simon breathed, his voice trembling, fractured by need. “Please, Dean...” The ‘please’ was a broken sound, a key turning in the lock of Dean’s control.
Dean added a second finger fully, scissoring them carefully, stretching Simon further, feeling the hot clench of muscle around his knuckles. He leaned down again, his lips brushing Simon’s shoulder blade. “You want my cock, don’t you?” he asked, his tone a potent mix of command and dark, teasing seduction. He crooked his fingers, searching, finding that spot deep inside—
“Yes!” Simon moaned, the word torn from him as his hips jerked back against Dean’s fingers, seeking more pressure, more friction, more everything. “I need it. Please, fuck me.” The raw desperation in his voice, the CEO reduced to begging in a storage closet, sent a jolt of pure power through Dean.
Dean pulled his fingers free with a slick, wet sound that seemed obscenely loud in the small space. Simon whimpered at the sudden emptiness, a sound of profound loss. Dean quickly undid his own pants, freeing his hard, aching length. He lined himself up with Simon’s stretched, glistening entrance, the head nudging against the tight ring. His hands gripped Simon’s hips tightly, fingers digging into the flesh, anchoring him, claiming him. “Beg for it,” he demanded, his voice low and rough, stripped of any pretence. “Properly. Tell me what you want.”
Simon’s breath hitched, a ragged sob catching in his throat. He pressed his forehead hard against the cool metal of the desk, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge. When he spoke, his voice was shattered, raw, stripped bare of every defense: “Please, Dean... please fuck me. I need you inside me. I need to feel you... owning me. Stretch me... fill me... Please...” Each word was a plea, a prayer, a surrender that resonated in Dean’s bones.
Dean groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure lust unleashed at the sound of Simon’s broken begging. His cock twitched violently. He pushed forward slowly, relentlessly, inch by excruciating inch, breaching the tight heat, stretching Simon open around his thickness. The resistance, the sheer taking, was exquisite. Simon let out a choked, guttural moan, his entire body trembling, his hands gripping the desk edge as if it were a lifeline, knuckles bone-white. He pushed back, meeting the invasion, welcoming the possession.
“Fuck,” Dean hissed through clenched teeth, his head falling back as he savored the incredible tight heat enveloping him. He was fully sheathed, buried to the hilt, fused with Simon in the most primal way. He held still for a moment, relishing the feel, the power, the utter conquest. Then he pulled back slightly, just enough to feel the drag, before thrusting forward again, harder this time, setting a deliberate, deep rhythm that punched ragged gasps and low moans from Simon with every powerful surge.
The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small room, a rhythmic counterpoint to their ragged breathing and Simon’s increasingly desperate pleas. “Harder,” Simon begged, his voice cracking on the word, muffled against the desk. “Please, Dean... harder... need it...” His body arched, pushing back onto Dean’s cock, demanding more, faster, deeper.
Dean obliged, his own control fraying. He gripped Simon’s hips tighter, fingers surely leaving bruises, and drove into him with increasing force, each thrust a piston stroke of possession. The metal desk groaned and scraped against the concrete floor under their combined weight. The thought that someone might hear – the rhythmic thudding, Simon’s cries, the creaking furniture – flashed through Dean’s mind, dangerous and electrifying. It only fueled his arousal, sharpening it into something feral. He leaned down, his chest pressing against Simon’s back, and sank his teeth into the meat of Simon’s shoulder, biting down hard through the fabric of his shirt. Simon cried out, a sound of pain and ecstasy mingled, his body convulsing around Dean’s cock. Dean fucked him harder, faster, spurred on by the taste of salt on Simon’s skin and the raw sounds tearing from his throat.
Simon’s moans escalated, becoming ragged shouts, his body trembling violently as he neared the edge. “Dean... I’m close... please... please...” His voice was pure, undiluted need, stripped of everything but the desperate drive for release.
Dean reached around Simon’s hip, his hand sliding over the sweat-slicked skin of his abdomen. He found Simon’s cock, hard and leaking, trapped between his body and the desk. He wrapped his hand around it, his grip firm, almost rough. He stroked him in perfect, punishing time with his deep, relentless thrusts. The dual stimulation – the brutal fullness inside him, the demanding friction on his cock – was too much. Simon’s body bowed like a drawn bowstring.
“Come for me,” Dean commanded, his voice rough, demanding, the voice of absolute authority. “Now, Simon. Let go. Give it to me.”
The command, the relentless assault on his senses, the overwhelming feeling of being utterly possessed and used, detonated the tension coiling within Simon. His eyes rolled back, a strangled cry ripping from his throat as his orgasm tore through him with volcanic force. “DEAN!” he roared, the sound raw and primal, echoing off the shelves. Thick ropes of come pulsed over Dean’s hand, spattering across the cold metal desk and Simon’s heaving stomach. Wave after wave of intense, shattering pleasure crashed over him, leaving him trembling violently, gasping like a landed fish, utterly spent, held up only by Dean’s grip and the unforgiving desk.
The sight of Simon coming completely undone, the feel of his body convulsing and clenching rhythmically around his cock, the raw, animalistic sound of his release – it shattered Dean’s last vestige of control. With a guttural groan that mirrored Simon’s own cry – “Fuck, Simon!” – Dean buried himself impossibly deep, grinding his hips against Simon’s ass as his own release surged. He pulsed hotly inside Simon, filling him, marking him, claiming him in the most fundamental way possible. He held himself there, trembling, as the intense waves of his climax washed through him, a white-hot tide of power and possession.
For a long, suspended moment, they stayed frozen, locked together in the aftermath, the only sounds their harsh, ragged breaths echoing in the sudden, profound quiet of the closet. The air hung thick and humid, saturated with the musky scent of sex, sweat, and dust. Slowly, carefully, Dean pulled out, the movement eliciting a soft, oversensitive whimper from Simon. The emptiness felt profound, a physical echo of the devastating connection that had just been broken. Simon slumped forward fully onto the desk, his forehead resting on the cool metal, his body utterly limp.
Dean took a moment to catch his breath, the adrenaline still singing in his veins. He straightened his clothes with quick, efficient movements, tucking himself away, fastening his pants. His heart still hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of conquest. He looked down at Simon, slumped over the desk, his expensive suit trousers pooled around his ankles, his shirt rumpled and sweat-damp, cum glistening on his stomach and the desk. He looked powerful yet shattered, authoritative yet utterly conquered – a devastating contradiction that sent another surge of primal satisfaction through Dean. The dust motes seemed to settle around them like silent witnesses.
“You’re mine,” Dean said quietly but with absolute, unshakeable firmness. The words weren’t just a statement; they were a brand, seared into the moment. “And this,” he added, his gaze sweeping over Simon’s ravaged form, “isn’t over.” The promise hung in the charged air, heavier than the dust.
Simon turned his head slowly, with visible effort, to look at Dean over his shoulder. Exhaustion etched deep lines on his face, but beneath it, even now, his eyes were dark with a smouldering desire, a hunger that the climax hadn’t extinguished. It was the look of a person with an addiction already craving his next fix. “Yes,” he whispered, the single word a ragged breath of surrender, agreement, and anticipation all rolled into one. It was the only word that mattered.
