Mahogany Ruin
The whispered affirmation in the storage closet’s afterglow—“Yes”—hung between Simon and Dean like an unbreakable vow as they slipped back into the office’s rhythm. The rest of the workday passed in a haze of stolen glances and electric tension. Every accidental brush of hands when passing files, every lingering look across the bullpen, every shared elevator ride where Dean’s knuckles grazed Simon’s thigh under the pretence of adjusting his stance—each moment reinforced Dean’s claim.
Simon’s polished CEO facade remained intact for the outside world, but beneath the surface, his nerves hummed like live wires. Silver streaks in his otherwise dark hair caught the fluorescent light as he turned sharply, seeing Dean’s smirk when Janet handed him coffee, the younger man’s eyes dark with unspoken promise. The memory of the storage closet—Dean’s hands pinning him against the cold metal, the raw scrape of the desk against his skin, the illicit thrill of being taken where anyone could have heard—replayed in Simon’s mind, making his breath catch mid-sentence during budget reviews.
That night, Simon lay awake in his penthouse’s sterile luxury. Moonlight cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting silver stripes across the empty bed. He replayed the feel of Dean’s possession—the brutal stretch, Dean’s teeth on his shoulder, the way the desk groaned under their weight—until his body thrummed with phantom sensation. His fingers drifted to his lower back, pressing where Dean’s grip had surely left bruises. Rationalisation warred with hunger: This is untenable. Reckless. I’m his CEO, for God’s sake. He drafted speeches about boundaries, professionalism, and mutual respect. By dawn, he’d convinced himself he could regain control.
The next morning, Simon stood before his office window, watching the city awaken. He adjusted his Charvet tie, its silk cool against his throat—a shield. His charcoal suit, impeccably tailored to his powerful torso, felt like armour against the vulnerability Dean exposed. He’d rehearsed the words: “Dean, what happened was... intense. But it cannot compromise this company or our roles. We need structure. Distance.” The door clicked open without a knock.
Dean strode in, radiating predatory confidence. His naturally athletic build—honed by casual sports, not obsessive training—was evident even in his dark office shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle. He closed the door with a soft, definitive click, sealing them in. The air thickened instantly. Simon’s rehearsed speech evaporated. Dean’s presence—the heat in his unnervingly intense hazel eyes, the faint scent of sandalwood and sweat cutting through Simon’s expensive cologne—reduced him to the trembling supplicant from the storage room floor.
“You wanted to see me?” Dean’s voice was deceptively calm, but the edge beneath it scraped against Simon’s nerves.
Simon retreated behind his desk, the polished mahogany a flimsy barrier. He sat, steepling his fingers to hide their tremor. The silver streaks in his hair contrasted sharply with the flush creeping up his neck. “Yes, Dean. I thought we should discuss... boundaries.” The word felt brittle. “This... arrangement of ours needs to be handled carefully. Discreetly.”
Dean circled the desk like a shark. He stopped inches from Simon’s chair, planting his hands on the armrests, caging him in. Simon’s pulse hammered in his throat. Up close, Dean’s expressive face—usually lit by a disarming smile—was sharpened into something feral. “Boundaries?” Dean echoed, his breath warm on Simon’s cheek. “You didn’t seem too concerned about boundaries yesterday when you were begging me to fuck you harder against that supply desk. When you screamed my name loud enough to wake the dead.” His knuckles brushed Simon’s thigh. “Discreet? That ship sailed when you cum untouched just from me biting you.”
Simon’s cheeks burned. He gripped the armrests, knuckles white. “That was... a lapse. I’m your boss, Dean. This can’t continue like—”
Dean’s hand snapped out, gripping Simon’s tie. Not painfully, but with absolute authority. He used it to pull Simon to his feet until they stood chest-to-chest. Simon’s mature, handsome face—a mask of command for decades—was now taut with helpless arousal. “Still playing CEO?” Dean’s voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. His free hand slid down Simon’s spine, possessive and familiar, stopping just above his belt. “Tell me, Mr. CEO... did you touch yourself last night? Thinking about how I split you open on that desk?”
Simon’s breath hitched. Denial died on his lips. His body betrayed him, leaning into Dean’s touch, his cock thickening against his will. “Dean...” The name was a plea.
“No,” Dean corrected, tightening his grip on the tie. “You’re not in control. You never were.” His thumb traced Simon’s lower lip. “From the moment you stepped out of that stall and let me kiss you... You were mine.” His hand drifted lower, palming Simon’s erection through the fine wool of his trousers. Simon gasped, hips jerking forward. “You know it. Your body knows it.”
Dean stepped back abruptly, releasing the tie. Simon swayed, bereft. “On your knees,” Dean commanded, the tone brooking no argument. It wasn’t a request; it was an inevitability.
Simon hesitated—a final, futile spark of resistance. His gaze flickered to the door. Beyond it, the hum of the office continued: keyboards clicking, phones ringing, Janet’s muffled voice. The sheer insanity of what Dean demanded, here, in the heart of his domain... it should have been unthinkable. But the memory of Dean’s dominance—the bliss of surrender—flooded him. His knees hit the plush carpet before his mind fully registered the movement.
He looked up at Dean, the position itself an act of worship. Dean’s latent confidence radiated from him like heat as he unzipped his dark chinos, freeing his cock—already thick and flushed with arousal. Simon’s mouth watered. The musky scent, the sight of the vein pulsing along its length, the sheer power radiating from Dean... it ignited a desperate hunger.
“Go on,” Dean urged, his voice thick. He tangled a hand in Simon’s silver-streaked hair, not roughly, but with absolute ownership. “Show me how much you want it, how much you need it.”
Simon didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the head, tasting salt and skin. A low groan rumbled in Dean’s chest, vibrating through Simon. Encouraged, Simon took him deeper, his lips stretching, his tongue swirling along the underside. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking with desperate need, his own arousal a painful throb between his legs. Dean’s grip tightened in his hair, guiding his rhythm, setting a pace that was both demanding and rewarding.
“Fuck, Simon...” Dean breathed, his hips pushing forward gently. “Look at you. The mighty CEO on his knees, sucking my cock like he was born for it.” He thrust deeper, hitting the back of Simon’s throat. Simon’s eyes watered, but he relaxed his jaw, taking him deeper, moaning around the intrusion. The vibration made Dean curse. “That’s it. Take it all. Show me who you belong to.”
Simon obeyed, lost in the act of pleasing him—the weight on his tongue, the sounds Dean made, the sheer degradation and ecstasy of his position. His own hand crept to his straining cock, rubbing desperately through his pants.
Dean noticed. He pulled out abruptly with a wet pop, leaving Simon gasping, lips swollen and glistening. “Stand up,” he ordered, his voice rough.
Simon scrambled to obey, legs trembling. Dean spun him around, facing the massive mahogany desk—the symbol of Simon’s power. With ruthless efficiency, Dean unbuckled Simon’s belt, yanked down his trousers and boxers, and shoved him forward. Simon’s hairy ass—firm and powerful even in submission—was exposed, vulnerable. The air-conditioning raised goosebumps on his skin.
Dean leaned over him, chest pressed to Simon’s back, lips grazing his ear. “You’re going to beg for it,” he whispered, his voice laced with dark promise. His hand slid down Simon’s flank, over the curve of his ass, fingertips teasing his entrance. “Properly. Like you mean it.”
Simon’s breath came in ragged gasps. Need, sharp and primal, obliterated shame. He pushed back against Dean’s teasing fingers. “Please, Dean...”
“Please, what?” Dean pressed a single fingertip against the tight ring of muscle, applying maddening pressure without breaching.
“I need you!” Simon gasped, arching his back. “Inside me. Now. Please!”
“How badly?” Dean’s finger pressed inward, slowly, relentlessly, breaching the first tight resistance. Simon cried out, the stretch sharp and delicious.
“God, Dean... so badly!” Simon pushed back, impaling himself further on Dean’s finger. “Need to feel you... filling me... stretching me...”
Dean chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. He added a second finger, scissoring carefully, stretching Simon open. The burn was exquisite. Simon writhed, his cock leaking onto the polished wood of his own desk. “You’re so fucking tight,” Dean growled, crooking his fingers, seeking—
“There!” Simon shouted as Dean found his prostate, a jolt of white-hot pleasure searing through him. “Fuck! Don’t stop... please, Dean, don’t stop!”
Dean withdrew his fingers slowly, the loss profound. Simon whimpered. He heard the rustle of clothing. Then the blunt, insistent pressure of Dean’s cockhead against his stretched entrance.
“Beg,” Dean commanded, his hands gripping Simon’s hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “One last time. Make me believe it.”
Simon pressed his forehead to the cool wood, baring himself completely. His voice, when it came, was shattered, raw, stripped of every pretense: “Please, Dean... fuck me. I need you inside me. I need to feel you owning me, claiming me. Ruin me on this desk. Please... I’m yours. Only yours.”
The raw surrender shattered Dean’s control. With a guttural groan, he surged forward, burying himself in one long, relentless thrust. Simon screamed, the sound muffled by the desk. The stretch was immense, breathtaking, a brutal fullness that stole his breath and filled the hollow ache inside him. Dean bottomed out, hips flush against Simon’s ass, holding himself deep, letting Simon feel every inch.
“Mine,” Dean snarled, the word vibrating against Simon’s sweat-slicked skin.
Then he moved. Hard, deep, punishing strokes that drove Simon forward with each powerful thrust. The desk creaked ominously. Pens clattered to the floor. Skin slapped against skin, a rhythmic counterpoint to Simon’s ragged cries and Dean’s low, animalistic grunts. Dean fucked him with primal intensity, each thrust a piston stroke of possession, hammering into Simon’s prostate with devastating accuracy. Pleasure, sharp and all-consuming, coiled tighter and tighter in Simon’s gut.
“You like this?” Dean growled, one hand fisting in Simon’s hair, pulling his head back. “Your expensive suit ruined, bent over your own desk, getting fucked by your subordinate?” He slammed in harder. “Tell me!”
“Yes!” Simon sobbed, tears pricking his eyes. “God, yes! Don’t stop... harder, Dean, please!”
Dean obliged. He angled Simon’s hips higher, driving impossibly deeper. His free hand snaked around Simon’s hip, finding his leaking, neglected cock. He fisted it roughly, stroking in time with his brutal thrusts. The dual assault shattered Simon’s last shred of coherence.
“I’m close... Dean, I’m gonna—!” Simon’s warning was a broken gasp.
“Cum,” Dean commanded, his voice like iron, his thrusts turning brutal, final. “Cum for me. Now.”
The command, the relentless friction, the overwhelming sense of being utterly possessed and used, detonated Simon’s control. His orgasm ripped through him with seismic force. “DEAN!” he roared, his body convulsing violently. Thick ropes of come pulsed over Dean’s hand, splattering across the mahogany desk, his discarded papers, his own heaving stomach. Wave after wave of blinding, shattering pleasure crashed over him, leaving him trembling, gasping, utterly broken.
The sight of Simon’s complete surrender, the feel of his body clenching and milking his cock, the raw, animalistic sound of his release—it tore Dean’s climax from him. With a guttural roar—“FUCK, SIMON!”—he buried himself to the hilt, grinding his hips as he emptied himself deep inside Simon. He pulsed, hot and claiming, filling him, marking him as his own.
They collapsed against the desk, Dean’s weight pressing Simon into the sticky wood. The only sounds were their harsh, ragged breaths and the frantic hammering of Simon’s heart against his ribs. Dean slowly pulled out, the sensation oversensitive, leaving Simon feeling hollowed and claimed. He slumped forward, forehead resting on the cooling mess on his desk, utterly spent.
Dean straightened first, his naturally athletic frame moving with predatory grace as he tucked himself away. He looked down at the wreckage of the CEO: suit trousers pooled around his ankles, shirt rumpled and sweat-stained, cum streaking his stomach and the symbol of his power—the mahogany desk. Simon’s silver-streaked hair clung damply to his temples, his mature face slack with surrender. A profound sense of primal satisfaction settled deep within Dean. He’d shattered Simon’s authority in the very seat of his power, and Simon hadn’t just yielded; he’d begged for it.
He reached out, dipping his fingers in the cum on Simon’s stomach. With deliberate possessiveness, he smeared a thick streak across Simon’s cheekbone, marking him. Simon flinched but didn’t pull away, his eyes fluttering open.
“You look good like this,” Dean murmured, his voice low and thick with ownership. He traced the streak with his thumb. “Ruined. Mine.”
Simon met his gaze. Exhaustion etched deep lines on his face, but beneath it, his eyes burned with a dark, undeniable hunger—an addiction already craving its next fix. The boundary talk was ashes. The power dynamic was irrevocably set.
“Yes,” Simon whispered, the single word ragged, broken, and utterly sincere. It was surrender, affirmation, and a plea for more, all rolled into one.
Dean’s smirk was triumphant. He tossed a box of tissues onto the desk. “Clean yourself up, Mr. CEO,” he said, the title laced with irony. “We have a meeting in twenty minutes.” He turned and walked out, leaving Simon trembling amidst the wreckage of his authority, the scent of sex and submission heavy in the air. The game wasn’t over. It had just entered a new, more dangerous phase.
