Futile Lessons

His bare skull pressed back against the smooth leather, his fingers gripping the arms of the chair. His work lay forgotten on the desk. Dark head between his legs, bringing him more pleasure than he'd imagined during feverish dreams. Full, pouty lips wrapped around him, tongue lashing, teeth barely scraping, and he arched off the chair, nails gouging the leather arms as he peaked.

Charcoal grey trousers around his thighs, ankles resting on strong shoulders. Slick plug stretching him replaced by slicker hot iron. Large hands grasped the chair arms above his own hands, body scrunched uncomfortably, but not uncomfortably enough. Violet shirt unquestionably wrinkled.

A slow, savoring slide. A breathy moan.

Unbelievably full. Unbelievably right.

Hot blue eyes focused intensely on his, no shyness now. He was taken, claimed, possessed--


--on the chair in the study where he spent most of his time. He was no longer in control in his place of power. That which defined him was stripped away with a raw gasp of his name.


Bare skin pressed flush against him, a pulsing deep inside. Body shuddering, heart quaking, and he didn't want it to end.

But it did end, as always; and he was empty, and alone, and making a mess of the leather chair as usual.

He bowed his head, a half-wistful, half-disgusted sigh escaping from between his lips. It was futile to fantasize about what he would never get. It was a lesson he had failed repeatedly to learn.

With another sigh, he cleaned up and returned to work.


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