Penthouse Possession
Simon slumped against the unforgiving mahogany, the cool wood a stark counterpoint to the feverish heat radiating from his skin. His breath tore through him in ragged, uneven gasps, each inhale catching like shards of glass in his throat. The tremors running through him weren’t just aftershocks; they were the seismic echoes of his own annihilation. Dean loomed over him, a silhouette against the harsh office light, the smirk playing on his lips not just satisfied, but triumphant. He adjusted his dark chinos with an infuriatingly casual efficiency, the simple act a brutal reminder of his composure against Simon’s utter wreckage.
The air hung thick and cloying, saturated with the unmistakable musk of sweat and sex, undercut by the sterile tang of office air conditioning struggling to compete. Simon could smell himself on Dean – the salt of his skin, the expensive cologne now mingled with their shared exertion. He could smell the drying come smeared across his own stomach, his desk – the symbol of his worldly power, reduced to a canvas for his degradation.
“You’re mine,” Dean stated, his voice low, resonant, and devoid of any doubt. It wasn’t a question; it was a decree etched into the very air between them, as tangible as the stickiness cooling on Simon’s skin. He leaned down, breath hot against Simon’s sweat-damp temple where silver streaks starkly contrasted his dark, dishevelled hair. “And I’m not done with you yet. Not nearly.” The promise sent a shiver down Simon’s powerful torso, warring with exhaustion.
Simon could only manage a weak nod, his throat too raw, his mind too shattered to form words. Arguing was unthinkable. Dean had dismantled Simon, the CEO, whose tailored suits and silver-streaked hair commanded boardrooms, brick by psychological brick, in the very heart of his fortress. The CEO who commanded boardrooms and billion-dollar deals was gone, replaced by this trembling, hollowed-out vessel that existed only for Dean’s command. Resistance wasn’t defiance; it was simply impossible. He was powerless.
“Let’s go.” Dean’s command brooked no delay. He clamped a hand around Simon’s bicep, not painfully, but with an authority that brooked no resistance, and hauled him upright. Simon’s legs, treacherously weak and shaking, almost buckled. He stumbled, catching himself clumsily on the edge of the violated desk, his fingers smearing the evidence of his surrender. Dean steadied him with a grip that felt more like possession than support. “We’re leaving. Now.”
They moved through the hushed corridors of the executive floor. The usual daytime hum had faded into an eerie, post-work stillness. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long, accusing shadows. Every footstep, Simon’s unsteady and Dean’s purposeful, echoed like gunshots in the silence. Simon kept his head down, avoiding reflections that would show his mature, handsome face ravaged, tie askew over his sweat-darkened shirt, terrified of the ruined visage he knew would stare back. The pristine order of the office felt like a cruel mockery of the chaos churning inside him. He felt exposed, raw, every nerve ending screaming with the memory of Dean’s possession and the terrifying anticipation of what came next.
The descent to the underground parking garage was a blur of chrome and concrete. The sterile, cool air hit Simon’s flushed skin like a physical slap. And there, bathed in the harsh artificial light, stood his black town car, and beside it, Adam.
In the garage, Adam stood beside the town car, his muscular physique visible even under the impeccable driver’s uniform, posture ramrod straight. Yet, as Simon approached, supported more than guided by Dean, Simon saw the minute fracture in that composure. Adam’s eyes, usually focused on the middle distance, flickered over Simon – the dishevelled silver hair plastered to his forehead, the tie askew and loosened (Dean’s handiwork), the rumpled shirt straining over heaving breaths, the unmistakable flush high on his cheekbones, the slight, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands. Adam’s gaze lingered a fraction too long on the smudged streak Dean had left on Simon’s cheekbone – the mark of ownership Simon hadn’t yet dared to wipe away.
“Sir,” Adam acknowledged Simon, his voice carefully neutral, devoid of inflection. But as his eyes shifted to Dean, who still held Simon’s arm with proprietary ease, something flickered in their depths. Not just curiosity, but a sharp, acidic tang of jealousy. It was there and gone in an instant, masked by years of disciplined service, but Simon, hypersensitive in his unravelled state, caught it. Adam’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he smoothly opened the rear passenger door. He said nothing more, the silence itself thick with unspoken questions and resentment.
Dean didn’t relinquish his grip. He practically shoved Simon into the plush leather backseat, following immediately and settling beside him with a predatory grace that took up too much space. The door slammed shut with a heavy, final thud. “Drive,” Dean commanded Adam through the partition speaker, his tone flat, absolute, leaving no room for discussion or even acknowledgment beyond obedience.
Adam slid wordlessly into the driver’s seat. The engine purred to life, a smooth, powerful sound that did nothing to soothe the suffocating tension within the car. Simon sat rigidly, his back barely touching the seat, hands clenched into fists on his knees. He stared straight ahead, unseeing, focusing on the rhythmic pulse of his own frantic heartbeat thudding in his ears. Every nerve was stretched taut, hyper-aware of Dean’s presence beside him – the heat radiating off him, the scent of sandalwood, sex, and dominance, the sheer, overwhelming force of him filling the confined space. He felt like prey in a cage with the predator who had already tasted its blood.
Dean, in stark contrast, sprawled back, one arm resting along the top of the seat behind Simon’s head. He stared out the window at the passing city lights, but Simon knew his attention wasn’t on the view. He could feel Dean’s gaze, heavy and assessing, occasionally sliding over him, cataloguing his disarray, his tension, his utter submission. A faint, satisfied smirk played on Dean’s lips. The silence wasn’t companionable; it was charged, a live wire humming with Dean’s control and Simon’s helpless anticipation. Adam, a silent, watchful ghost beyond the partition, added another layer of excruciating tension. Simon wondered what Adam saw in the rearview mirror, what conclusions he was drawing from the palpable energy crackling in the back seat.
The journey to Simon’s penthouse felt interminable. The city lights blurred into streaks of colour outside the tinted windows. Inside, the air grew thick with unspoken words and stifled desire. Simon’s mind replayed the scene on his desk – the brutal invasion, the shattering pleasure, the humiliating climax, Dean’s mark on his face. Each memory sent fresh waves of shame and terrifying arousal coursing through him. He shifted minutely, the fine wool of his trousers suddenly abrasive against his oversensitive skin. A soft, involuntary whimper escaped him before he could clamp his lips shut.
Dean’s head turned slowly. His eyes, dark and knowing in the dim light, fixed on Simon. He didn’t speak. He simply reached out and traced the drying streak on Simon’s cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. The touch, possessive and deliberate, made Simon flinch and shudder simultaneously. “Patience,” Dean murmured, the single word vibrating with dark promise. Simon squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching.
Finally, the car glided to a smooth halt beneath the imposing portico of Simon’s building. Adam was out instantly, opening Simon’s door with practised efficiency. His eyes darted to Simon’s face, then quickly away, his expression carefully blank, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable. As Simon awkwardly extricated himself, legs still unsteady, Dean exited behind him, his presence immediately dominating the hushed luxury of the entrance.
“Thank you, Adam,” Simon managed, his voice hoarse and embarrassingly weak. “You can put the car away. We won’t need you further tonight.” He couldn’t meet the driver’s eyes.
“Sir,” Adam acknowledged, his tone flat. But as Dean stepped past him, brushing close, Adam’s gaze locked onto the younger man. The jealousy was back, sharper this time, mixed with a potent resentment. It was a look that spoke volumes – Who are you? How dare you? Dean met the look head-on, a slow, arrogant smirk spreading across his face. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. The smirk, the possessive hand he placed on the small of Simon’s back to steer him towards the private elevator, was answer enough. Adam watched them go, his hands clenching into fists at his sides before he turned stiffly back to the car.
The elevator ascent was a silent, mirrored cage. Simon stared at his own reflection – the dishevelled suit, the haunted eyes, Dean’s mark stark on his cheek, Dean standing slightly behind him, radiating smug ownership. He looked ruined. He was ruined. The doors slid open onto the expansive, minimalist luxury of Simon’s penthouse foyer. Moonlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a silver glow on the polished concrete floors. It felt cold, sterile, achingly empty compared to the brutal intimacy of the office and the charged atmosphere of the car.
Dean propelled Simon forward, his grip firm on his arm. “Upstairs,” he commanded, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. “Now.”
Simon obeyed, his footsteps echoing on the stairs leading to the master suite. His sanctuary, his place of expensive silks and curated calm, felt like it was being invaded. Dean followed close behind, a predator shepherding its prize. The bedroom door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in plush, sound-dampened silence. The enormous bed, neatly made, looked impossibly distant.
Dean pushed Simon towards it. Not gently. Simon stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the mattress. Before he could regain his balance, Dean spun him around. The predatory gleam was back, intensified. He reached into the pocket of his dark chinos and pulled out a simple, wide strip of black silk—a blindfold.
“Put this on,” Dean ordered, holding it out. His tone allowed for no refusal, no question.
Simon’s hands trembled violently as he took the cool silk. The intimacy of the object, the trust it implied–or rather, the surrender it demanded–was overwhelming. He raised shaking hands, fumbling as he tied the blindfold securely over his eyes. Darkness descended, absolute and terrifying. His other senses instantly roared to hyper-awareness. The sound of Dean’s breathing suddenly became loud and close. The scent of his own fear mixed with Dean’s sandalwood and the faint, lingering musk of their earlier encounter. The feel of the plush carpet beneath his stockinged feet. The terrifying vulnerability of not seeing.
He felt Dean move, the air shifting around him. Then strong hands were on him again, rougher now, stripped of any pretence. They pushed his ruined suit jacket off his shoulders, the fabric whispering as it pooled on the floor. Nimble fingers made quick work of his shirt buttons, peeling the damp cotton away to expose his hairy chest to the cool air. He gasped as Dean’s palms skated over his ribs, his stomach, tracing the trail of hair downwards. The touch was demanding, possessive, mapping territory already conquered.
Dean’s fingers found the waistband of Simon’s trousers and boxers. In one swift, efficient motion, he yanked them down, leaving Simon naked from the waist down, exposed and trembling in the centre of his own bedroom. The cool air kissed his skin, raising goosebumps, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Dean’s gaze, which he could feel burning into him.
“You’re so eager,” Dean murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel through Simon’s bones. A rough hand cupped Simon through his remaining shirt, palming his half-hard cock. Simon gasped, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. “See? Already hard for me again. Pathetic. Perfect.” Dean squeezed, not gently. Simon cried out, a strangled sound swallowed by the blindfold. “I can feel how much you want this. How much do you need it?”
Simon moaned, the sound raw and desperate. His body arched into the touch, betraying him utterly. The darkness amplified every sensation—the calloused roughness of Dean’s palm against his sensitive flesh. The heat radiating from Dean’s body was now pressing close against his back. The scent of him filled Simon’s nostrils, intoxicating and terrifying. It was driving him wild, stripping away the last vestiges of thought, leaving only primal need.
Dean didn’t prolong the tease. He spun Simon around and pushed him backwards onto the bed. Simon landed with a soft thud on the cool, expensive sheets, disoriented by the darkness and the sudden movement. He felt Dean’s weight settle on the bed beside him, then over him, knees bracketing his hips. Rough hands pushed the tails of his shirt aside, fully exposing him.
There was no preamble. Dean’s hand wrapped around Simon’s cock, now fully hard and straining. He stroked him, a slow, deliberate drag from root to tip, his thumb swirling over the leaking slit. Simon cried out, his back arching off the bed, hands scrabbling uselessly at the sheets. Dean set a ruthless rhythm – slow, agonising pulls followed by swift, punishing strokes that stole Simon’s breath.
“Please,” Simon begged, the word torn from him, ragged and broken. His voice trembled, thick with unbearable need. “Please, Dean... I can’t...”
Dean chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against Simon’s skin. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of Simon’s ear, his breath hot and damp. “You can’t what, Simon? Can’t take it? Can’t stop yourself from begging?” He tightened his grip, twisting slightly on the upstroke. Simon shouted, his hips bucking wildly. “Tell me what you want. Say it.”
“I want you!” Simon gasped, the admission ripped from him. “God, Dean, I want you! Please!”
“Want me to what?” Dean purred, his hand never slowing. “Be specific. I want to hear the words fall from those pretty CEO lips.”
Simon writhed, blinded, consumed. “I want you... to fuck me,” he choked out, the words burning his tongue, shaming him, thrilling him. “Please... fuck me, Dean. I need it.”
Dean’s grip tightened almost painfully. “Good boy,” he rasped, approval lacing the roughness. “But first...” He shifted his weight.
Simon felt Dean move down his body. He knew what was coming, the anticipation coiling tight in his gut. Then, heat. Wet, engulfing heat. Dean took him deep into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue swirling relentlessly around the sensitive head. Simon screamed, his hands flying to tangle in Dean’s hair, holding on for dear life as sensation detonated through him. Dean’s mouth was a furnace, his tongue a weapon of devastating precision. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking with a ferocious hunger that matched Simon’s own desperate need. He bobbed his head, setting a brutal pace that had Simon thrashing, incoherent pleas tumbling from his lips.
It was too much, too fast, too perfect. The darkness magnified every suck, every flick, the wet sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room. Simon felt the orgasm building, a white-hot coil tightening unbearably low in his belly, threatening to snap. “Dean... I’m going to... I’m gonna...” he gasped, his voice high-pitched, frantic. His body tensed, arching off the bed, teetering on the precipice.
Just as the wave was about to crash, Dean pulled off. The sudden, shocking absence of sensation was like a physical blow. Simon gasped, a sound of pure, agonised loss, his body convulsing with denied release. He felt hollowed out, desperate, tears pricking behind the blindfold.
“Not yet,” Dean growled, his voice thick. Simon felt him shift, moving back up Simon’s body. A cool slickness touched his entrance – lube. Dean’s finger, dense and demanding, pressed against his tight ring of muscle. Simon tensed instinctively.
“Relax,” Dean commanded, his voice firm, brooking no argument. He pressed inward, slowly, relentlessly breaching the resistance. Simon cried out, the stretch sharp and intense. “You know you want this. You begged for it.” Dean worked the finger deeper, crooking it slightly, sending sparks through Simon’s nerves. “Open for me. Take it.”
Simon fought to breathe, to obey. He focused on the command, on the deep, authoritative tone that bypassed his resistance. He forced his muscles to unclench, to yield. Dean added a second finger, scissoring carefully, stretching him. The burn was exquisite, a painful fullness that promised more. Simon moaned, pushing back against Dean’s hand, seeking more pressure, more of that devastating friction. Dean’s fingers curled, finding that spot deep inside.
“There!” Simon shouted, his body bowing violently off the bed. “Fuck! Dean, yes!”
Dean chuckled, a low, dangerous sound vibrating against Simon’s thigh. He worked his fingers with cruel expertise, stretching, probing, pushing Simon relentlessly towards the edge, only to pull back. Simon was a writhing mess beneath him, reduced to broken pleas and gasps. “You want my cock now, Simon?” Dean murmured, his voice rough with his own arousal. “Want me to fill you up? Ruin you properly in your own bed?”
“Yes!” Simon sobbed, his words ragged. “Please! God, Dean, now! I need you inside me! Please!”
Dean withdrew his fingers slowly. Simon whimpered at the profound emptiness. He heard the rustle of clothing, the clink of a belt buckle, and the soft thud of fabric hitting the floor. Then, the blunt, insistent pressure of Dean’s cockhead, thick and hot, pressed against his stretched, slick entrance. The promise of it was overwhelming.
“Beg,” Dean commanded, his hands gripping Simon’s hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the flesh. “One last time. Make it good.”
Simon pressed his head back into the pillows, baring his throat in the darkness. His voice, when it came, was shattered, raw, stripped of every shred of dignity, every vestige of the man he’d been hours before: “Please, Dean... fuck me. I need you inside me. I need to feel you owning me, claiming me, ruining me. Please... I’m yours. Only yours. Fuck me! Please!”
The raw, absolute surrender was the final trigger. With a guttural groan torn from deep within his chest, Dean surged forward. He buried himself in one long, relentless thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt in Simon’s tight, yielding heat. Simon screamed, the sound raw and primal, muffled only by the blindfold and the pillows. The stretch was immense, breathtaking, a brutal fullness that stole his breath and filled the aching void inside him completely. Dean bottomed out, hips flush against Simon’s ass, holding himself deep, letting Simon feel every inch, every pulse of his cock inside him.
“Mine,” Dean snarled, the word a possessive growl vibrating against Simon’s sweat-slicked skin.
Then he moved. Hard. Deep. Punishing strokes that drove Simon into the mattress with each powerful thrust. The bedframe groaned in protest. Simon cried out with every penetration, his cries escalating into ragged screams as Dean set a brutal, unforgiving pace. Dean fucked him with primal intensity, each piston-like drive hammering into Simon’s prostate with devastating accuracy. Pleasure, sharp and all-consuming, obliterated thought. Simon was reduced to sensation – the overwhelming fullness, the searing friction, the slap of skin on skin, Dean’s low, animalistic grunts in his ear, the sheer, terrifying force of being used.
“You like this?” Dean growled, one hand fisting in Simon’s hair, pulling his head back sharply. “Your fancy penthouse? Your silk sheets? Knowing you’re nothing but a hole for me to fuck?” He slammed in harder, deeper. “Tell me!”
“Yes!” Simon sobbed, tears soaking the blindfold. “God, yes! Don’t stop... harder, Dean, please! More!”
Dean obliged, his control fraying at the edges. He angled Simon’s hips higher, driving impossibly deeper. His free hand snaked around Simon’s hip, finding his neglected, leaking cock. He fisted it roughly, his grip almost punishing, stroking in brutal counterpoint to his thrusts. The dual assault shattered Simon’s last tether to coherence. Pleasure, white-hot and agonising, coiled impossibly tight in his groin.
“I’m close... Dean, I’m gonna---!” Simon’s warning was a broken gasp, lost in the maelstrom.
“Cum,” Dean commanded, his voice like iron, his thrusts turning frenzied, final. “Cum for me. Now. Give it to me!”
The command, the relentless friction, the overwhelming sense of being utterly claimed and used, detonated the tension. Simon’s world exploded into blinding white light behind the blindfold. “DEAN!” he roared, the sound raw and animalistic, tearing from his throat as his orgasm ripped through him with seismic force. His body convulsed violently, back arched like a drawn bow, as thick ropes of come pulsed over Dean’s hand, spattering across his own heaving stomach and the expensive sheets. Wave after wave of shattering, all-consuming pleasure crashed over him, leaving him trembling, gasping, utterly destroyed, held down only by Dean’s relentless grip and thrusts.
The sight of Simon’s complete, blindfolded surrender, the feel of his body convulsing and milking his cock, the raw, guttural sound of his release – it tore Dean’s climax from him. With a roar that matched Simon’s own cry – “FUCK, SIMON!” – he buried himself impossibly deep, grinding his hips against Simon’s ass as he emptied himself in hot, claiming pulses deep inside. He held himself there, trembling, as the intense waves washed through him, a primal tide of power and absolute possession.
For long, suspended moments, they remained locked together, the only sounds their harsh, ragged breaths and the frantic hammering of their hearts. The air hung thick and humid, saturated with the musky scent of sex, sweat, and submission. Slowly, carefully, Dean pulled out, the movement eliciting a soft, oversensitive whimper from Simon. The emptiness felt profound, a physical ache echoing the devastating connection that had just been broken. Simon slumped bonelessly back onto the soaked sheets, utterly spent, the blindfold still shielding his ruined expression.
Dean rolled off him, breathing heavily. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, the adrenaline singing in his veins, the profound satisfaction of conquest settling deep in his bones. He then stood, moving with the fluid grace of a predator sated for the moment. He retrieved his clothes, dressing with quick, efficient movements.
Simon lay motionless, adrift in a sea of exhaustion and overwhelming sensation. He was dimly aware of Dean moving, then the soft rustle of the blindfold being untied. He blinked against the sudden intrusion of dim moonlight, his vision blurry. Dean stood beside the bed, fully dressed, looking down at him. Simon knew he must be a horrifying sight – naked, trembling, covered in sweat and his own release, his eyes red-rimmed and dazed.
Dean reached out. Not to comfort. He dipped his fingers in the cooling mess on Simon’s stomach. With deliberate, unhurried possessiveness, he smeared a thick, fresh streak across Simon’s other cheekbone, mirroring the mark from the office. Simon flinched but lacked the strength to pull away. He just stared up, hollowed.
“You look good like this,” Dean murmured, his voice low, thick with absolute ownership. He traced the new streak with his thumb, his touch lingering. “Ruined. Used. Mine.” He leaned down, his lips brushing Simon’s ear. “Remember that.”
He straightened, his gaze sweeping over Simon’s ravaged form one last time. A smirk, triumphant and chilling, touched his lips. He turned and walked towards the bedroom door, not looking back.
As Dean opened the door, Simon’s bleary eyes focused beyond him. Standing in the shadowed hallway, illuminated by the sliver of light from the bedroom, was Adam. He hadn’t left. His face was a mask of shock, his eyes wide, fixed not on Dean, but on Simon – naked, marked, trembling, the evidence of his utter conquest starkly visible. Adam’s expression wasn’t just jealousy now; it was a complex storm of disbelief, anger, fascination, and a deep, unsettling hurt. He met Simon’s gaze for a split second – a gaze filled with shame and a terrifying, undeniable hunger – before quickly looking away, his own cheeks flushing crimson.
Dean paused in the doorway, noticing Adam. He didn’t seem surprised. His smirk deepened into something cruel and knowing. He didn’t acknowledge the driver. He walked past him, down the hall, leaving Simon exposed, marked, and utterly owned, with Adam as the silent, horrified witness to the depths of his CEO’s surrender. The click of the front door closing downstairs echoed like a tomb sealing shut.
Simon closed his eyes, the tears finally spilling over, cutting paths through the streaks Dean had left. He was Dean’s. Utterly. And the game, he knew with terrifying certainty, was far from over. Adam’s presence added a dangerous, volatile new dimension. But in that moment, all he could feel was the profound emptiness and the terrifying echo of Dean’s final words: “Mine.”
