Chapter 4: Begging at the Desk
Time lost its shape.
It stretched and snapped, measured only by the rise and fall of the fever in Derek’s blood. He lay on the rug, its wool coarse against his cheek, drifting in a haze of physical memory. The smell of sex and sweat and leather was a blanket over him. His body ached in a dozen specific ways—the deep, throbbing emptiness between his legs, the sharp, hot sting across his backside, the tender ache in his scalp. Each ache was a brand, a receipt for a different shade of humiliation.
The heat did not break. It receded, but only to the banks, a low tide gathering strength for the next wave. It began as a faint prickle under his skin, a restlessness in his bones. Then came the cramping low in his gut, a sharp, twisting need that made him curl tighter around himself. A fresh slickness seeped from him, soaking the rug beneath his hips. The throbbing returned, a persistent, pulsing demand that echoed in his empty core.
He couldn’t stay here. The thought was vague, formless. The study. Peter said he’d be in the study.
Moving was an agony of awareness. Every muscle protested. The air felt too cold on his damp, abused skin. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, a low groan escaping his lips. The position felt perversely natural now. He began to crawl.
The hallway outside the mirrored room was dim, lined with dark wood and strange, looming shadows cast by unseen light sources. The floor was cool hardwood, smooth against his palms and knees. The sound of his own movement was obscene—the soft slap of his palms, the drag of his knees, the wet, faint slickness that marked his passage. He felt like an animal, driven by a base, undeniable instinct. Shame was a distant concept, burned away by the more immediate, chemical fire.
He followed the scent. Peter’s scent—clean cotton, expensive cologne, and underneath, the sharp, wild spice of alpha—was a trail in the air. It led him to a heavy, dark door, left slightly ajar. A sliver of warm, amber light cut across the hallway floor. From within came the faint sound of a pen scratching on paper.
Derek stopped at the threshold, his breath hitching. He could see a slice of the room: a wall of shelves holding not books, but jars of unsettling things suspended in liquid. Dark roots, strange petals, things that glimmered with a faint, internal light. The air from the room smelled different here—dried herbs, ozone, and beneath it, something wet and dark, like turned earth after a rain.
He pushed the door open with a trembling hand.
The Witch’s study was a cathedral to the occult. Blackened mirrors lined the walls, their surfaces smoked and reflective, throwing back distorted fragments of the room. Obsidian shelves held more jars, crystals, and tools of polished bone. On one wall, leather cuffs hung neatly from hooks. In a corner, a low, padded bench sat, its purpose unmistakable. Against another wall was a structure that made Derek’s breath catch—a glass-walled enclosure, like a shower stall, but the floor was of dark, porous stone, already radiating a gentle, residual heat. The scent of past heats, of salt and desperation, lingered there.
Peter sat at a large, claw-footed desk in the center of it all, his back to the door. He was writing in a large, leather-bound ledger, his posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. He didn’t turn.
Derek crawled inside. The door swung shut behind him with a soft, definitive click. The room absorbed sound, the thick carpets and strange artifacts creating a dense, expectant silence broken only by the scratch of Peter’s pen. Derek moved across the floor, the contrast of the plush carpet against his raw knees a new sensation. He felt every jar, every mirror watching him. His own reflection, fragmented and grotesque, crawled alongside him in the darkened glass.
He reached the side of the desk. He could see Peter’s polished shoes, the crisp crease of his trousers. A drop of moisture fell from Derek’s body and darkened the carpet. He flinched at the sight.
He lowered his head, his forehead pressing against the carpet’s dense weave. The words, when they came, were a broken whisper, scraped raw from his throat.
“Please.”
Peter’s pen did not stop. It continued its steady, looping script.Derek swallowed. The need was a clawed thing in his belly, twisting. He could feel himself dripping, a slow, warm trickle down his inner thigh. His whole body was clenching around a void. “Master.” The title felt foreign and heavy on his tongue, but it also felt inevitable. “Please. I need it again.”
Finally, the scratching stopped. Peter placed the pen down with a precise tap. He uncrossed his legs and slowly swiveled the chair around.
He looked down at Derek, his expression one of mild, academic interest. He took in the sight: the trembling form on the floor, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the desperate, pleading eyes. Peter’s gaze was cool, assessing.
“Do you,” Peter said, his voice light, conversational. He leaned back, spreading his thighs just slightly. The casual dominance of the gesture made Derek whimper. “You seem rather… urgent.”
Derek nodded, a frantic, jerky motion. “I can’t… it won’t stop. It’s building again.” He inched forward, until his nose was almost touching Peter’s shoe. The scent of alpha here was overwhelming, a magnet to his shattered senses. “Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”
Peter watched him for a long, silent moment. A small, crooked smile touched his lips. “Then show me,” he said, his tone deceptively soft. “Show me how much you need it, pup.”
Understanding dawned, hot and humiliating. Derek’s face flushed. He hesitated for a second, his body trembling with the conflict between ingrained pride and all-consuming need.
Need won.
He shuffled forward on his knees, bringing himself into the space between Peter’s spread legs. The fine wool of Peter’s trousers brushed his chest. He could feel the warmth, the solid presence of him. With shaking hands, he fumbled for Peter’s belt. His fingers felt thick, clumsy. The buckle clicked open too loudly in the quiet room.
Peter didn’t help. He simply watched, one arm resting on the chair, his fingers steepled. He observed Derek’s struggle with the button of his slacks, with the zipper, as if it were a mildly interesting experiment.
Finally, Derek freed him. He was already hard, and the sight sent a new, frantic jolt through Derek’s system. He didn’t wait for further instruction. He leaned in, his mouth watering, and took him in.
The taste was familiar now—salt, skin, the subtle musk of power. He tried to be good, to be attentive, using his tongue, hollowing his cheeks, taking him deeper. He bobbed his head, a clumsy, desperate rhythm, his own neglected arousal a painful, throbbing ache between his legs.
Peter let out a soft, contented sigh. His hand came down and cupped the back of Derek’s head, not guiding, just resting there, a possessive weight. “That’s a start,” he murmured. “But you’re thinking too much. It’s messy.Needy. Just like the rest of you.”
The criticism stung. Derek tried to focus, to make it better, but the heat was coiling too tightly inside him, shortening his breath, making his movements frantic. He was panting through his nose, drool slicking his chin. He was a mess.
“Enough,” Peter said, his voice still quiet. He gently pushed Derek’s head back.
Derek pulled off with a wet, desperate sound, looking up, his lips swollen, his eyes glazed. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Shhh.” Peter stood up, his movements fluid. He looked down at Derek for a moment, then glanced toward the glass-walled enclosure. “I think we need a change of scenery. A more… controlled environment.”
He walked toward the glass box. Derek followed on his knees, crawling after him across the strange carpet. Peter opened a seamless glass door and stepped inside. The warm air from the floor wafted out, carrying that old, primal scent.
“In here,” Peter said, not looking back.
Derek crawled over the threshold. The floor was warm stone, textured, almost sandy. It felt alive under his hands and knees. Peter was standing in the center, a dark silhouette against the smoked mirrors of the study beyond the glass.
“On your back,” Peter instructed. “Legs up. Let me see you.”
Derek complied, rolling onto his back. The stone was warm against his shoulder blades. He pulled his knees toward his chest, spreading himself open, exposing himself completely to Peter’s gaze. The position was profoundly vulnerable, his body offered up like a sacrifice on the warm altar. He stared at the ceiling, which was also mirrored, and saw his own reflection—a pale, distorted figure splayed open, waiting.
Peter knelt between his legs. He didn’t touch him at first. He just looked, his eyes tracing the flushed, leaking evidence of Derek’s heat, the marks from earlier. “Beautiful,” he said, and the word was a clinical observation. He reached out a single finger and traced a path through the slickness on Derek’s inner thigh. Derek jerked at the touch, a sob catching in his throat. “Absolutely ripe for it.”
Then Peter leaned forward. He didn’t push into him. Instead, he lowered his head.
The feeling of Peter’s tongue, hot and wet and shockingly intimate, lapping at him, licking into him, drew a shattered cry from Derek’s lips. His hips bucked off the warm stone involuntarily. It wasn’t gentle. It was possessive, thorough, a claiming that went deeper than any penetration had. Peter tasted him, consumed him, with a focused, humming intensity that stripped away the last of Derek’s coherence.
Derek babbled, his hands fisting at his sides, his heels digging into the stone. “Please, please, please…”
Peter lifted his head, his chin glistening. He looked utterly unaffected, while Derek was a writhing, desperate wreck beneath him. “Please what?”
“Inside. Please, I need you inside, Master, I can’t—“
Peter smiled. He shifted, positioning himself. He pushed in with one smooth, excruciatingly slow thrust, filling the unbearable emptiness in a single, stretching stroke.
Derek screamed, his back arching off the warm floor. The mirrors caught the motion, multiplying it.
Peter set a deep, rolling rhythm, each thrust a measured, deliberate conquest. He kept his eyes open, locked on Derek’s face, watching every flicker of agony and ecstasy. The warm floor beneath them, the enclosing glass walls, the countless mirrors reflecting their joined bodies—it created a dizzying, infinite feedback loop of sensation and image. Derek was everywhere, in every reflection, being taken, over and over.
“You see?” Peter grunted, his rhythm never faltering. He reached down, his hand wrapping around Derek’s neglected cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was too much, a devastating overload. “You see how perfect this is? How you were meant for this?To be used. To be my perfect, desperate thing.”
Derek could only nod, his eyes wide, seeing himself nod in the ceiling mirror, over and over. The tension coiled, tighter, tighter, a spring wound to its breaking point.
“Come for me,” Peter commanded, his voice a low growl that vibrated through Derek’s very bones. His hand tightened. His thrusts became sharper, deeper, targeting a spot that made Derek’s vision shatter into stars.
The climax wasn’t a wave. It was an explosion, silent and blinding, that tore through him from the inside out. His body locked, seizing around Peter, his mouth open in a soundless scream as pleasure, sharp as broken glass, ripped him apart. He spurted over Peter’s hand and his own stomach in hot, helpless pulses.
Peter followed him over, his own release a deep, shuddering groan as he buried himself to the hilt and held, his hips grinding in tight, possessive circles until he was spent.
For a minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing echoing in the glass chamber. Peter pulled out slowly. Derek felt the warm trickle immediately. He lay limp, utterly destroyed, staring at the mirrored ceiling where his ruined reflection stared back.
Peter stood up, adjusting his clothes. He looked down at Derek, a satisfied, almost paternal expression on his face. He pulled a soft cloth from a discreet shelf by the door and wiped his hands clean.
“The cycle is progressing exactly as intended,” he said, his voice returning to that casual, analytical tone. He tossed the cloth onto Derek’s stomach. “Clean yourself up. The next wave will be shorter. The intervals are decreasing.”