Patriarch's Price
The fluorescent lights of Kensington-Morley Global’s executive floor hummed like trapped insects, casting a sterile glow that made John Fletcher’s worn flannel shirt feel like a trespasser’s flag. At 45, his body retained the working man’s strength—thick shoulders and forearms corded from decades of loading pallets in Logistics, not sculpted in any gym. A thin layer of chest hair peeked above his collar, hinting at the vulnerable masculinity beneath practical, slightly faded clothing. His kind but weary face carried the subtle stress of a man providing, etched with lines that deepened as he hesitated outside Simon Kensington-Morley’s office door.
He’d watched Dean enter that sanctum three times this week. Each time, his stepson emerged with an unnerving stillness, hazel eyes holding that unnerving, unintentional intensity, jaw set like stone beneath his open, expressive face. John’s stomach clenched. He’s going to fire him. My boy’s drowning here, and I pushed him into this shark tank. The memory of recommending Dean for the internship curdled in his gut. Their relationship—cordial but distant, lacking a deep emotional connection—now felt like a failing dam holding back a flood of guilt.
Taking a ragged breath that expanded his labour-honed chest, John knocked.
“Come in.” Simon’s voice, smooth as polished marble, sliced through the door.
The office was a monument to controlled power. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a city that Simon seemed to own. The CEO himself sat like a king behind a vast mahogany desk, carrying his wealth and authority effortlessly in a tailored suit that probably cost more than John’s truck. Silver streaks tastefully highlighted his dark hair, and his mature, handsome face was a mask of command. Yet John saw the cracks—the faint shadows beneath Simon’s eyes, the slight tension in his strong, well-maintained hands as they steepled on the desk blotter. A dense mat of dark chest hair was visible where his shirt lay open at the throat.
“John,” Simon said, a ghost of amusement playing on his lips. “An unexpected visit. Logistics running smoothly?”
“It’s Dean, sir.” John’s voice sounded rough, like gravel in this refined space. He stood awkwardly, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, practical work boots planted firmly on the priceless rug. “He’s been in here a lot this week. I… I know he’s green. Makes mistakes. But he’s a good kid. Smart. Just needs a chance.” He met Simon’s gaze, the subtle stress tightening his voice. “Please. Don’t let him go. If there’s… if there’s anything I can do. Is there any way I can make up for it? I’ll do it.”
Simon leaned back, the leather chair sighing. His sharp gaze raked over John, lingering on the muscular build from labour, the slightly worn clothing, the weary face. A predator assessing unfamiliar prey. “Anything, John?” The word hung in the air, thick with unspoken implication. Simon stood, moving with the silent assurance of inherited power. He circled the desk, stopping inches from John. The scent of expensive sandalwood and bergamot cologne clashed with John’s own smell of detergent and faint machine oil.
“You’d truly do anything to secure Dean’s place here?” Simon’s voice dropped, intimate and dangerous.
John’s throat tightened. The air crackled. He saw it then—not a professional appraisal, but a raw, predatory hunger in Simon’s eyes, the same look John had glimpsed fleetingly in Dean’s unnerving focus. It mirrored the deeply buried yearning John himself had fought for years. “Yes, sir,” he rasped, the word tasting like ash. “Anything.”
Simon’s smile widened, devoid of warmth. “Prove it.” His gaze swept John’s body. “Strip.”
The command hit John like a physical blow. Ice flooded his veins, followed by a terrifying surge of heat low in his belly. No. This isn’t… He can’t mean… His working-man’s hands clenched at his sides. Images flashed: Dean’s bewildered face if he lost the internship; his ex-wife’s disappointment; the crushing weight of failing, again, as a provider, as a stepfather. The quiet responsibility and unspoken frustrations of his life pressed down, suffocating. Beneath the shock, something else stirred—long-suppressed submissive desires, terrifyingly potent, directed not at Simon, but at the unconscious catalyst who was his stepson. The shame was immediate, corrosive.
“Sir?” John choked out, his voice barely audible.
Simon didn’t repeat himself. He simply watched, mature features composed, silver streaks stark against his temples, radiating absolute expectation. The silence stretched, filled only by John’s hammering heart. The ethical weight of the power dynamic Simon himself had feared now crushed John. Was this exploiting Simon? Or was Simon, burdened by responsibility and masks, finding some twisted release through him?
With trembling fingers that felt alien, John reached for the top button of his flannel shirt. The fabric was soft, worn thin at the elbows. Each button undone felt like shedding a layer of his identity—the reliable worker, the struggling stepfather, the man who carried his burdens silently. The shirt fell open, revealing his thick chest covered in a thin layer of dark hair, the powerful torso built by physical labour, not vanity. He let it slide off his broad shoulders, the fabric pooling on the exquisite rug.
Simon’s gaze intensified, tracing the lines of John’s body—the defined muscles earned from loading pallets, the faint scars from old workplace nicks, the vulnerable masculinity laid bare. “Continue,” Simon commanded, his voice a low thrum.
John’s hands fumbled with his belt buckle, the rasp of leather loud in the silence. He pushed his worn work pants down over his muscular thighs, stepping out of them, leaving him in simple cotton boxers that did little to hide his body’s traitorous response to the humiliation and the terrifying, burgeoning thrill. He stood before his and his stepson’s boss, utterly exposed, the reluctant patriarch unravelling.
“All of it,” Simon murmured, his gaze fixed below John’s waist.
A final wave of shame crested, hot and nauseating. John hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, the elastic stretching. He pushed them down, stepping free. Now he stood completely naked in Simon Kensington-Morley’s office, blue-collar strength laid bare before tailored power. His kind face burned crimson, eyes fixed on a point beyond Simon’s shoulder, unable to meet the CEO’s predatory interest. His cock, thick and flushed, stood half-hard against his thigh—a humiliating testament to the conflict raging within him: terror, shame, and the allure of shedding his burdens he’d never dared name.
“On your knees,” Simon ordered, the command resonating with the iron-clad CEO persona.
John’s legs trembled. The polished floor felt cold beneath his knees. He knelt, head bowed, the posture itself an act of utter surrender that scraped his soul raw. He stared at the intricate pattern of the rug, the subtle stress replaced by a roaring emptiness. He heard the whisper of fabric, the click of a belt buckle.
Simon’s polished Oxford shoes appeared before him. Then, the hem of immaculately tailored suit pants pooled around them. The pants lowered further. John saw strong, hairy calves, the edge of dark boxer briefs, and then… Simon was exposed entirely from the waist down. The raw intimacy was staggering, a vulnerability beneath the power that mirrored Dean’s accidental view weeks ago.
John instinctively recoiled, but Simon’s hand settled firmly on his shoulder, strong and well-maintained, holding him in place. “Look at me, John.”
Forcing his gaze upward felt like lifting a mountain. He saw Simon’s cock, thick and erect, the dense mat of dark chest hair trailing down from his open shirt. Simon’s expression held no warmth, only predatory interest and the profound exhaustion of a man seeking release from his own gilded cage.
“Suck it,” Simon commanded, his voice devoid of request. “Show me your commitment to Dean’s future.”
The words were a branding iron. For Dean. This is for Dean. John repeated it like a mantra, trying to drown the screaming shame and the terrifying spark of arousal ignited by the sheer, degrading authority. He leaned forward, the musky scent filling his nostrils. His lips brushed the velvety head. A tremor ran through Simon.
John opened his mouth, taking Simon in. The taste was foreign, salty, overwhelming. He focused on the mechanics, hollowing his cheeks, trying to replicate what he thought might please, driven by desperation. Simon groaned, a low, ragged sound that vibrated against John’s lips. A hand tangled roughly in John’s short, practical hair, grey showing at the temples, guiding his head.
“Good,” Simon breathed, his hips rocking forward. “Take it deeper. Show me how much you want this for him.”
John gagged as Simon’s cock hit the back of his throat, tears springing to his eyes. He fought the reflex, forcing his jaw to relax and submit to the invasion. The unspoken frustrations of his life—the financial strain, the emotional distance from Dean, the feeling of being perpetually inadequate—seemed to coalesce into this single, degrading act. A perverse sense of relief washed over him as he surrendered control. Simon thrust deeper, groaning, powerful torso straining above him. John’s own neglected cock throbbed painfully against his stomach, a traitorous beacon of his body’s betrayal.
Simon pulled back abruptly, leaving John gasping, lips swollen and wet. “Stand up,” he ordered, his voice thick.
John scrambled to obey, legs trembling violently. Simon gripped his arm, not gently, and spun him towards the massive desk—the symbol of Kensington-Morley’s empire. “Bend over. Hands flat.”
The cold mahogany bit into John’s palms. He closed his eyes, bracing himself, the thin layer of chest hair brushing the cool wood. He felt utterly exposed, his working-man’s ass presented, vulnerable. Simon’s hand ran possessively over the curve, calloused fingertips scraping his skin.
“Relax,” Simon murmured, though it held no comfort. A cool slickness touched John’s entrance—lube from a desk drawer. Simon’s finger, thick and demanding, pressed against his tight ring of muscle. John tensed instinctively, a strangled gasp escaping him.
“Relax,” Simon commanded, pressing inward. The stretch burned, sharp and invasive. “You wanted this. For Dean.”
John bit his lip until he tasted blood. For Dean. For Dean. He focused on the name, trying to anchor himself. Simon worked the finger deeper, crooking it slightly. A jolt of unexpected sensation shot through John—not just pain, but a spark of shocking electricity deep inside. He cried out, hips jerking.
Simon chuckled darkly, a sound that vibrated against John’s back. “There it is. Knew you had it in you, John.” He added a second finger, scissoring carefully. The burn intensified, a painful fullness that made John pant. Simon’s free hand gripped John’s hip, fingers digging into the labour-hardened muscle. “Such a tight fit for a working man. But you’re taking it well. Taking it for your stepson.”
The words were torture. The dual sensation—stretch and that terrifying spark—was overwhelming. Simon’s fingers curled again, finding that spot with cruel precision. “FUCK!” John shouted, back arching violently off the desk. “Simon! Yes!” The admission tore from him, raw and shameful.
Simon withdrew his fingers slowly. John whimpered at the profound emptiness. He heard the rustle of clothing, the soft thud of Simon’s trousers hitting the floor. Then the blunt, insistent pressure of Simon’s cockhead, thick and hot, pressed against his stretched, slick entrance.
“Beg for it,” Simon commanded, his hands gripping John’s hips hard enough to bruise. “Beg me to fuck you. To keep Dean safe.”
John pressed his forehead to the cool wood, the weary lines of his face pressed into the grain. His voice, when it came, was shattered, raw, stripped of every pretence: “Please… Simon… please fuck me. I need it. Need you inside me… Please… keep Dean safe. Fuck me… I’ll take it… Please.”
The raw surrender shattered Simon’s control. With a guttural groan, he surged forward. He buried himself in one long, relentless thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt in John’s yielding heat. John screamed, the sound muffled by the desk, echoing in the cavernous office. The stretch was immense, breathtaking, a brutal fullness that stole his breath and filled the aching void inside him. Simon bottomed out, hips flush against John’s ass, holding himself deep, letting John feel every inch.
“Mine,” Simon snarled, the word vibrating against John’s sweat-slicked skin.
Then he moved. Hard. Deep. Punishing strokes that drove John into the desk with each powerful thrust. The heavy wood groaned in protest. Pens clattered to the floor. Skin slapped against skin, a rhythmic counterpoint to John’s ragged cries and Simon’s low, animalistic grunts. Simon fucked him with primal intensity, each piston-like drive hammering into John’s prostate with devastating accuracy. Pleasure, sharp and all-consuming, obliterated thought. John was reduced to sensation—the overwhelming fullness, the searing friction, the slap of skin, Simon’s possessive growls in his ear, the sheer force of being used for a purpose he both despised and craved.
“You like this?” Simon growled, one hand fisting in John’s hair, pulling his head back. “Begging for your stepson’s job? Taking your boss’s cock like a cheap whore?” He slammed in harder. “Tell me!”
“Yes!” John sobbed, tears streaming down his face, cutting paths through sweat and shame. “God, yes! Don’t stop… harder, please! More!”
Simon reached around, his hand sliding over John’s sweat-slicked stomach. He found John’s neglected, leaking cock. He fisted it roughly, his grip punishing, stroking in brutal counterpoint to his thrusts. The dual assault shattered John’s last tether to coherence—pleasure, white-hot and agonising, coiled impossibly tight.
“I’m close… Simon, I’m gonna—!” John’s warning was a broken gasp.
“Cum!” Simon commanded, his voice like iron, his thrusts turning frenzied, final. “Cum for me, John. Now. Give it to me for Dean!”
The command, the relentless friction, the overwhelming sense of being utterly possessed and used for his stepson’s sake, detonated John’s control. His world exploded into blinding white light. “SIMON!” he roared, the sound raw and primal. His body convulsed violently, back arched like a drawn bow. Thick ropes of cum pulsed over Simon’s hand, spattering across the mahogany desk and John’s heaving stomach. Wave after wave of shattering, all-consuming pleasure crashed over him, leaving him trembling, gasping, utterly destroyed, held down only by Simon’s relentless grip and thrusts.
The sight of John’s complete surrender, the feel of his body convulsing and milking his cock, the raw, guttural sound of his release—it tore Simon’s climax from him. With a roar—“FUCK, JOHN!”—he buried himself impossibly deep, grinding his hips 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.
They collapsed against the desk, Simon draped over John’s heaving back, both trembling, gasping. The only sounds were their harsh, ragged breaths and the frantic hammering of John’s heart against his ribs. Slowly, carefully, Simon pulled out, the sensation oversensitive, leaving John feeling hollowed, claimed, and profoundly ashamed. He slumped forward, forehead resting on the cooling mess on the desk, utterly spent. Simon’s semen leaked down his muscular thighs.
Simon straightened, adjusting his clothes with swift, efficient movements, the CEO persona snapping back into place, though his silver-streaked hair was damp at the temples. He tossed a monogrammed handkerchief onto the desk beside John’s head. “Clean yourself up, John,” he said, his voice regaining its smooth authority, laced now with cruel satisfaction. “Dean’s position is secure. For now.” He walked to the door, pausing. “Remember our arrangement. Discretion is paramount. For Dean’s sake.” The door clicked shut behind him.
John remained slumped, trembling. The scent of sex, sweat, and expensive cologne filled his nostrils. The ethical weight crushed him. Had he saved Dean, or damned them both? The long-suppressed submissive desires, now horrifyingly awakened, coiled in his gut—not for Simon, but for the unconscious catalyst, his stepson. The terrifying allure of shedding his burdens and submitting to the unexpected authority he sensed in his stepson felt terrifyingly potent. He wiped clumsily at the mess on his stomach and the desk, his calloused hands shaking. As he pulled on his clothes, each movement felt alien. The practical, slightly worn fabric felt like a flimsy shield.
He stumbled out of the office, avoiding the elevator, taking the deserted fire stairs down to Logistics. He needed the harsh smell of packing materials, the roar of forklifts—anything to drown out the phantom feel of Simon inside him, the echo of his own desperate pleas. He rounded a corner stacked high with crates and froze.
Dean stood near a loading bay door, bathed in the grey afternoon light filtering through dusty windows. He wasn’t alone. Adam Price stood close, the silent sentinel radiating tension even in his impeccably tailored butler’s uniform. Adam’s observant eyes missed nothing as he spoke urgently to Dean, a hand briefly touching Dean’s arm. Dean listened, his naturally athletic build taut, his expressive face unreadable except for that unnerving, unintentional intensity in his hazel eyes. He nodded curtly at Adam, who melted back into the shadows of the warehouse with silent efficiency.
Dean turned, his gaze sweeping the warehouse floor. It landed on John. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked across the distance. John saw it—not confusion, not anger, but a chilling knowing. A flicker of that primal charisma Dean remained unaware of. It was as if Dean sensed the violation, the degradation, the seismic shift within his stepfather. John’s kind but weary face burned anew with shame. He looked away first, unable to bear the weight of that silent, unnerving comprehension.
Dean didn’t approach. He simply held John’s gaze for a moment longer, the latent confidence radiating from him like heat. Then he turned and walked away, his worn sneakers silent on the concrete floor, leaving John alone amidst the crates, utterly unravelled, the reluctant patriarch knowing the game had irrevocably changed, and he was now perilously entangled in Dean’s darkening web.
