Braxton's Prerogative Part One

The house was dark when Leonard Hargrove pulled into the driveway, the sagging roofline silhouetted against the dim glow of a distant streetlamp. He sighed, rubbing the stiffness in his neck. Another late night. Another round of pushing papers long after the office emptied. He wasn’t even sure why he stayed—habit, maybe. Fear of coming home, perhaps.

He climbed out of his rust-flecked sedan, his belly shifting uncomfortably under his too-tight dress shirt as he adjusted his belt. The porch light flickered, a bulb on its last legs. He made a mental note to change it but knew he probably wouldn’t.

Inside, he expected silence—his wife asleep or pretending to be. Instead, low, rhythmic sounds drifted from upstairs.

Leonard froze. He recognized those sounds immediately. His hands grew clammy as he quietly closed the door behind him. The floor creaked under his cautious steps toward the staircase, his heart hammering. His mind scrambled for explanations—anything except the truth he already knew.

Maybe she was watching TV. Maybe—

Then came a voice. Low and guttural.

"God, you taste better than that porterhouse I had at La Forchette. I should keep you all to myself, darlin’."

Leonard’s breath caught. He clutched the banister. He recognized that voice—it had boomed across the office for twenty years, exuding hints of steak and whiskey. It belonged to Ronald Braxton, his corpulent, gluttonous boss.

Step by careful step, Leonard ascended without disturbing the creaking wood. His body felt numb as he reached the slightly ajar bedroom door and peered inside.

In the dim glow of the bedside lamp, his wife lay naked under Braxton’s heaving, sweat-slick body. Braxton’s thick fingers dug into her thighs and his massive stomach pressed down as he left greasy, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone. Damp sheets testified to their exertion as his wife moaned, arching against him.

Leonard’s stomach lurched. He should have turned away and walked downstairs, pretending he hadn’t seen anything. But he didn’t.

His breath shallowed and his pulse roared in his ears. Against all reason, something stirred within him.

Gripping the doorframe, he told himself to leave—to drown whatever he felt in stale coffee—but he stayed, watching. His wife writhed beneath Braxton’s bulk, her moans thick and needy. Leonard should have been sickened, furious, devastated. Instead, a slow, traitorous heat unfurled inside him.

Braxton grunted, sweat gleaming on his chest. "You like this, don’t you? You like being used." His hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back as he buried his face against her neck.

She whimpered—a sound Leonard had never heard from her before. Not pain, but surrender. A sharp exhale almost escaped him.

Shame battled with the heat pooling in his gut. He wasn’t like Braxton—loud, greedy, and forceful. He was meek, invisible, a husband who quietly paid the bills while his wife lay unfulfilled. Yet hidden in the dark, he realized something.

He didn’t want to stop them. He wanted to watch.

Worse—he craved the sensation of being taken the way his wife was now.

Leonard’s breath hitched as his trembling hand drifted downward, pressing against the fabric of his slacks. The pressure sent a jolt through him, and a quiet gasp escaped his lips.

He froze, but the sounds from the bed continued.

His wife clawed at Braxton’s back, her desperate whimpers filling the room. Reserved and distant before, she was now undone beneath the weight of his boss’s greedy thrusts.

Braxton chuckled, belly shaking. “That’s it, sweetheart. You take it so well… better than that dry filet mignon I had last week.”

Leonard squeezed himself through the fabric, biting back any sound. His pulse pounded and his breath came shallowly. Everything was wrong—unspeakably wrong—but his body refused to relent.

His fingers slipped to his belt. The buckle. The zipper. Cool air against overheated skin sent a shiver up his spine.

He stroked himself until his knees trembled. He shouldn’t be there. He should burst in, demand answers, fight, scream—anything but this.

In that moment, however, he wanted to see every second.

Leonard shuddered as the sensation built; his fingers tightened and his breath came in short, silent gasps. The lewd symphony of wet flesh, guttural moans, and his wife’s desperate cries drove him past the point of return. Heat surged through him, spilling over in the open fabric of his slacks.

Then came the shame. His skin dampened, and his cheeks burned. What kind of man stood hidden in the shadows, watching his wife surrender to his boss—and came?

With shaking hands, he tucked himself back into his slacks and hastily zipped up. His heart raced. Without another glance at the bedroom, he turned and went downstairs. In the suffocating air of the living room, he sank onto the worn leather sofa and stared blankly at the dark television screen. He wanted to disappear, to pretend nothing had happened, but the sticky dampness clung stubbornly to him.

Time passed. An hour. Maybe more. His thoughts churned in a haze of self-loathing and something darker.

Then—footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

Leonard tensed. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air shifted, thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and cigar smoke.

Ronald Braxton stood in the doorway. Naked.

Unashamed.

His broad, sagging belly jutted out, thick fingers lazily scratching the damp tangle of hair below. His skin gleamed with the aftermath of his indulgence.

Leonard swallowed hard. He couldn’t speak.

Braxton chuckled, low and knowing.

"You think I didn’t see you, Hargrove?"

Leonard's fingers twitched against his knees.

Braxton took a slow step closer, his bulk looming. "I know you were watching." His lips curled into a smirk. "And I know you were rubbing yourself while you did it."

Leonard’s stomach lurched. Heat crept up his neck, a sick mix of humiliation and something dangerously close to anticipation.

Braxton leaned in, radiating warmth. His breath reeked of whiskey and sin. "So tell me, Hargrove…" His thick fingers grazed the back of Leonard’s neck, his voice a taunting whisper.

"Did you enjoy the show?"

Leonard jolted upright, forcing outrage onto his face, though his flushed skin and trembling hands betrayed him. "What the hell is this, Braxton?" His voice cracked. "How dare you—"

Braxton chuckled, stepping closer. "Oh, cut the act, Hargrove." Amusement thickened his tone. "You’re not mad. You’re not even disgusted. You liked watching me take her."

Leonard’s breath hitched. His nails dug into his thighs, but he said nothing.

Braxton grinned. "You’re a meek little thing, aren’t you?" He brushed the collar of Leonard’s rumpled dress shirt. "You always do what you're told. At work. At home. Always putting yourself last." His fingers toyed with Leonard’s top button. "But tonight…"

The button slipped free.

"You don’t have to be last."

Leonard swallowed hard. He should resist—tell Braxton to get the hell out, put some damn clothes on, leave him and his wife alone.

But he didn’t move.

Braxton popped the second button. "Take them off." His voice was firm, expectant, like issuing office orders. "Now."

Leonard’s hands lifted, fingers fumbling as he unfastened each button with trembling precision. The shirt slid from his shoulders, pooling at his feet.

Braxton’s smirk widened as Leonard hesitated at his belt.

"All of it."

Leonard obeyed. The belt slipped loose. The zipper followed. His slacks dropped, then his briefs, leaving him bare beneath the dim living room light.

Braxton simply looked at him, gaze indulgent, taking in the soft curves of his body, the hesitancy in his posture, the flush of shame on his face.

Then, without warning, he grabbed Leonard’s jaw and pulled him into a wet, consuming kiss.

Leonard gasped, body stiffening before it melted. The kiss was hungry, forceful, Braxton’s thick fingers pressing into his flesh, his breath hot and commanding. Leonard whimpered, hands twitching uselessly at his sides.

Braxton pulled back, grinning. "There you go." He dragged Leonard onto the sofa. "Now let’s see just how much you enjoy being told what to do."

Leonard sprawled on the couch, breath uneven, skin prickling with sweat. The air between them was thick, heavy with exertion and something unspoken.

Braxton took a deep drag of his cigar, the ember glowing orange in the darkened room, casting grotesque shadows across his fleshy face. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around Leonard's naked form like ghostly fingers.

"You know what I think, Hargrove?" Braxton's voice was thick with satisfaction. "I think you've been waiting for this. Watching me across the conference table. Staying late. Always so eager to please."

Leonard's mouth went dry. Denial rose to his lips but died there, unspoken. His body betrayed him, responding to Braxton's words with shameful eagerness.

Braxton's hand—meaty, calloused—slid across Leonard's pale stomach, fingers tracing the soft curve of his belly. "Look at you. Soft. Yielding." His palm pressed down, kneading the flesh. "Made to be taken."

Leonard trembled, unable to meet Braxton's gaze. The larger man leaned forward, his bulk shifting the sofa cushions, the leather creaking beneath their combined weight. The scent of him—sweat, tobacco, expensive cologne, and the lingering musk of Leonard's wife—was overwhelming.

"Come here," Braxton commanded, pulling Leonard against his chest.

Leonard found himself pressed against Braxton's expansive torso, the coarse hair tickling his face, the skin hot and slick with perspiration. Braxton's heartbeat thundered beneath his ear.

"Don't just lie there," Braxton growled, his fingers tangling in Leonard's thinning hair. "Show me what that mouth can do."

With tentative movements, Leonard pressed his lips to Braxton's chest. The skin was salty, yielding beneath his touch. He kissed a path across the expanse, feeling the give of flesh, the subtle shift of weight as Braxton leaned back, cigar clenched between his teeth.

"That's it," Braxton murmured, smoke seeping from the corners of his mouth. "Now the nipples. Don't be shy."

Leonard's tongue circled the hardened nub, feeling it stiffen further against his lips. He sucked gently at first, then harder as Braxton's encouraging grunts spurred him on. The older man's hand pressed against the back of his head, holding him in place.

"Harder," Braxton demanded, his voice roughening. "Use your teeth. I'm not some delicate flower."

Leonard obeyed, grazing the sensitive flesh with his teeth, drawing a hiss of pleasure from Braxton. The combination of pain and pleasure seemed to ignite something in the larger man. His hips bucked upward, his arousal pressing insistently against Leonard's thigh.

"Down," Braxton commanded, his voice dropping to a guttural growl. "Lower."

Leonard's breath caught in his throat as he trailed his lips down the expanse of Braxton's heaving chest, across the soft swell of his stomach. The flesh quivered beneath his touch, a landscape of hills and valleys marked with silvery stretch marks that caught the dim light like rivers on a moonlit map.

"You know where I want that mouth," Braxton said, tapping ash from his cigar onto the carpet—Leonard's carpet—with casual disregard. His free hand tangled in Leonard's hair, fingers tightening until the roots stung. "Don't make me wait, Hargrove. I've had enough of your hesitation at the office."

Leonard's face burned as he sank lower, his knees finding the hardwood floor. The cool surface against his skin was a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Braxton's body. He found himself eye-level with his boss's arousal, thick and insistent, framed by coarse gray hair that trailed up to his navel like an animal's pelt.

"Look at me," Braxton demanded.

Leonard raised his gaze, meeting Braxton's eyes—hooded, predatory, gleaming with both triumph and desire. The cigar hung from the corner of his mouth, smoke curling around his fleshy face like a serpent.

"I want to see your eyes while you do it," Braxton said, his thumb tracing Leonard's lower lip, pressing against the soft flesh until it gave way. "I want to see the moment you realize what you are."

Leonard trembled, his own breath coming in shallow gasps. Upstairs, he could hear the shower running—his wife, washing away the evidence of her encounter with this man. And here he was, on his knees, about to—

"Suck it," Braxton said, the words falling like a gavel. "Now."

Leonard parted his lips, hesitant at first, then with growing determination. The taste was salt and musk, the weight against his tongue foreign yet strangely compelling. Braxton's groan echoed through the living room, reverberating in Leonard's chest.

"Christ, Hargrove," Braxton hissed, his hips lifting slightly off the sofa. "If I'd known that mouth was good for something besides stammering excuses about quarterly reports—"

Leonard closed his eyes, surrendering to the rhythm Braxton set with his hand firmly gripping the back of his head. The carpet burned against his knees. Saliva pooled at the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin in glistening rivulets.

"Open your eyes," Braxton commanded again. "I told you to look at me."

Braxton's eyes darkened as Leonard looked up at him, a primal satisfaction spreading across his fleshy features. The cigar bobbed between his lips as he spoke, ash threatening to fall.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice thick with arousal. "Keep those eyes on me. I want to see every flicker of shame... and hunger."

Leonard felt himself flush deeper, the heat spreading from his cheeks down his neck to his chest. His jaw ached, stretched uncomfortably wide, yet he couldn't deny the electric current running through his own body. Each grunt from Braxton sent vibrations through him, each tightening of those thick fingers in his hair made his skin prickle with goosebumps.

Braxton shifted his weight, the leather sofa protesting beneath him. His free hand abandoned the cigar in a nearby ashtray, then traced the curve of Leonard's stretched cheek with surprising gentleness.

"Look at you," he whispered, almost reverently. "All those years pushing papers, saying 'yes, sir' and 'right away, sir'... and this is what you really wanted."

Leonard made a muffled sound—denial, perhaps, or confirmation. Even he couldn't be sure anymore. The hardwood floor bit into his knees, but the discomfort only heightened his awareness of every sensation: the heaviness on his tongue, the scent of Braxton's skin, the distant sound of water pipes groaning as the shower upstairs shut off.

Beneath his ministrations, Braxton's flesh grew firmer, fuller. The older man's breathing changed, becoming more ragged, his massive chest heaving with each inhalation. Leonard felt the change, the subtle pulse against his tongue, the increasing urgency in Braxton's grip.

"Enough," Braxton suddenly growled, pulling Leonard off him with a wet sound that seemed obscenely loud in the quiet room. "Turn around."

Leonard hesitated, his lips swollen and glistening, his mind struggling to catch up with what was happening.

"I... what?"

Braxton's expression hardened. "You heard me, Hargrove. Turn around." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Show me that soft ass of yours."

The crude words sent a jolt through Leonard's body. He should refuse, should find some remnant of dignity and self-respect. Instead, he found himself slowly pivoting on bruised knees, presenting his back to the man who had just been with his wife.

The silence stretched for several heartbeats. Leonard could feel Braxton's gaze on him like a physical touch, trailing down his spine, lingering on the curve of his backside. He fought the urge to cover himself, to shrink away from that appraising stare.

"Hands on the coffee table," Braxton instructed, his voice husky with anticipation. "Spread your legs wider."

Leonard leaned forward, palms flat against the polished walnut of the coffee table, his body bent at an angle that left him vulnerable and exposed. The wood felt cool against his feverish skin, a stark contrast to the heat emanating from Braxton's hulking form behind him.

"Look at you," Braxton murmured, his voice thick with appreciation. "All trussed up like a Christmas goose." His massive hands settled on Leonard's hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of his spine. "I bet you've thought about this, haven't you? While you were shuffling those expense reports across my desk?"

Leonard's breath hitched, a whimper escaping his lips before he could suppress it. The pressure of those hands—hands that signed his paychecks, that had just caressed his wife—sent shivers cascading down his thighs.

"Answer me, Hargrove," Braxton demanded, one hand sliding up Leonard's back, then down again, fingernails leaving faint red trails in their wake.

"N-no," Leonard stammered, the lie transparent even to his own ears.

Braxton chuckled, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. "Liar." His palm cracked against Leonard's exposed flesh, the sharp sting blooming into heat that radiated outward. "I can read it all over you. Been able to for years."

Another slap, harder this time. Leonard gasped, his fingers curling against the table's edge.

"Your wife saw it too," Braxton continued, his breathing growing labored as he positioned himself. "Why do you think she invited me over? Said you needed to be shown what you really are."

Leonard's mind reeled at the implication, but before he could process it, he felt Braxton's substantial girth pressing against him, insistent and unyielding. The pressure was intense, bordering on pain.

"Relax," Braxton commanded, his hand sliding around to grip Leonard firmly. "You want this. Your body's already telling me so."

Leonard bit his lip as Braxton pushed forward, breaching him with agonizing slowness. The sensation was overwhelming—a burning stretch that made his vision blur at the edges. His fingers scrabbled against the coffee table, knocking over a forgotten mug, sending it rolling across the hardwood floor.

"That's it," Braxton growled, his bulk leaning forward, chest pressed against Leonard's back. "Take it all."

Leonard felt impaled, split open, remade. Braxton's substantial weight pressed him down, forcing the air from his lungs in short, staccato gasps. The coffee table creaked beneath their combined weight, threatening to collapse.

"Move," Braxton ordered, his breath hot against Leonard's ear. "Show me how badly you want it."

With trembling thighs, Leonard pushed back, taking Braxton deeper, drawing a guttural moan from

Braxton's hands clamped around Leonard's hips like iron manacles, controlling his movements with brutal efficiency. Leonard's body yielded, accepting the invasion that burned and stretched him beyond what he thought possible. The coffee table beneath his palms creaked with each powerful thrust, the family photos and magazines sliding precariously toward the edge.

"Christ, Hargrove," Braxton growled, his voice thick with primal satisfaction. "Tighter than your wife." His belly slapped against Leonard's lower back, the impact punctuating each thrust with a meaty percussion that filled the room.

Leonard's fingers scrambled for purchase against the polished walnut, his wedding ring catching the dim light as it scraped across the surface. The gold band—fifteen years of marriage encapsulated in a simple circle—glinted accusingly as Braxton drove deeper, claiming territory never before surrendered.

"You like that?" Braxton's voice roughened, his breath coming in ragged pants. "Tell me you like it."

Words failed Leonard, replaced by guttural sounds he'd never heard himself make—half-pain, half-pleasure, wholly animalistic. His throat constricted around unintelligible syllables as Braxton's rhythm intensified.

"Say it," Braxton demanded, punctuating the command with a particularly savage thrust that sent shockwaves up Leonard's spine. One meaty hand released its grip on Leonard's hip, sliding up his sweat-slicked back before tangling in his hair, yanking his head back at an uncomfortable angle. "Tell me you love being fucked by your boss."

"I—I—" Leonard gasped, his voice breaking. "Yes."

The admission unleashed something in Braxton. His movements became frenzied, uncoordinated, his massive body bearing down with its full weight. The coffee table gave an ominous crack, one leg splintering under the assault. Leonard found himself pressed lower, his cheek now against the cool surface, drool pooling beneath his open mouth.

Upstairs, the bedroom door opened. Footsteps padded across the landing.

"She's coming," Braxton grunted, his pace unfaltering. "Your wife's going to see you like this. Spread open. Taking it. Loving it."

Leonard's heart hammered against his ribs, a counterpoint to the relentless pounding of Braxton's hips. Shame and arousal twisted together in his gut, indistinguishable from one another. The footsteps grew closer, descending the stairs with deliberate slowness.

"Look at her," Braxton commanded as a shadow fell across them. "Show her what you are."

Leonard's eyes fluttered open, focusing with difficulty on the figure now standing in the doorway. His wife—wrapped in a silk robe, her hair damp from the shower—watched with an unreadable expression. Water droplets clung to her collarbone, tracing paths down into the valley between her breasts. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound emerged.

Leonard tried to look away, but Braxton's grip tightened in his hair, forcing him to maintain eye contact with his wife. Her expression shifted—surprise giving way to something darker, more complex. Not disgust, not quite, but a dawning comprehension that seemed to reshape her features in the half-light.

"See?" Braxton panted, addressing her without breaking his rhythm. "Told you he'd take it. Told you what he needed."

She said nothing, her fingers tightening around the silk belt of her robe. A single water droplet traced the curve of her neck, disappearing beneath the fabric. Her gaze locked with Leonard's, unwavering, searching.

Braxton's movements grew more erratic, his massive body trembling with exertion. Sweat poured from him in rivulets, dripping onto Leonard's back, pooling in the hollow of his spine before sliding down the curves of his flanks. The room filled with the scent of them—salt and musk and something primal, ancient.

"Almost there," Braxton groaned, his voice dropping to a guttural register that seemed to vibrate through Leonard's entire body. "Going to fill you up. Mark you. Make you mine."

Leonard's fingers scrabbled uselessly against the polished surface of the coffee table, leaving ghostly smears that caught the dim light. His body no longer felt like his own—it had become a vessel, a receptacle for Braxton's pleasure and power. Each thrust pushed him further into this new reality, this transformation he hadn't known he craved.

Braxton's breath grew ragged, hitching in his throat. His hands tightened their grip, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to leave tomorrow's bruises. "Take it," he commanded, the words barely distinguishable. "Take all of it."

The wave crashed through Braxton with violent intensity. His body went rigid, muscles locking as he buried himself to the hilt. A sound tore from his throat—something between a roar and a sob—as he emptied himself in pulsing waves. The heat of it flooded Leonard's insides, marking him from within more indelibly than any brand or tattoo ever could.

Leonard felt every spasm, every twitch, every subtle pulse as Braxton spent himself completely. The sensation triggered his own release, unexpected and overwhelming, wringing a strangled cry from his throat as he painted the underside of the coffee table with pearlescent strands.

For several heartbeats, they remained frozen in tableau—Braxton buried deep, Leonard trembling beneath him, his wife a silent witness in the doorway. Then, with a satisfied groan, Braxton collapsed forward, his substantial weight driving the air from Leonard's lungs in a whoosh.

The coffee table gave one final protest before surrendering completely, the remaining legs splintering under their combined weight. They

The coffee table collapsed with a splintering crash, sending them sprawling onto the hardwood floor. Glass shattered, picture frames cracked. In the aftermath, silence descended—heavy, suffocating. Leonard lay pinned beneath Braxton's heaving bulk, his cheek pressed against the cool floor, eyes fixed on his wife's bare feet at the threshold.

She hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken. The silence stretched between them like a chasm, widening with each labored breath Braxton took.

Finally, Leonard found her eyes. In them, he saw not disgust or rage, but something far more devastating: recognition. As if she were seeing him—truly seeing him—for the first time. Her lips parted slightly, but whatever words she might have spoken died unvoiced. Instead, she drew the silk robe tighter around herself, fingers trembling against the delicate fabric.

"Eleanor," he whispered, her name foreign on his tongue. When had they last truly spoken to each other? When had the distance between them grown so vast?

She shook her head slowly, water droplets falling from her damp hair onto her shoulders like tiny diamonds catching the dim light. Her expression shifted—not to anger, but to a profound weariness that aged her before his eyes. The corners of her mouth twitched, not quite forming a smile, more a grimace of acknowledgment.

Without a word, she turned away, her silhouette ethereal against the hallway light.

As she shut the bedroom door, Braxton chuckled, "You liked it." It wasn’t a question.

Leonard hesitated, lips parting, but said nothing.

Braxton grinned wider. "And you’ll like it next time too."

Leonard shuddered.

Next time.

The word sat between them, unspoken but undeniable.

Braxton tapped the ashtray, then ran a thick finger along Leonard’s flushed cheek. "Be a good boy and clean yourself up. We’ve got work tomorrow."

Leonard nodded absently, body moving on instinct as his mind spiraled.

The next day Leonard arrived at the office a few minutes early, his body sore, his mind tangled in half-formed thoughts. The building looked the same—gray, unremarkable, humming with the dull rhythm of another workday. Yet, as he stepped inside, it felt different. He felt different.

The air-conditioning sent a shiver down his spine, making him hyper-aware of his skin, his clothes, the lingering sensation of last night. Adjusting his tie with unsteady fingers, he forced himself toward his desk, eyes straight ahead.

Then he noticed the glances—brief but deliberate. Feldman from accounting. Fischer from the mailroom. Owens from payroll. Not outright staring, but watching. A flicker of amusement, of knowing. Like they had been where he was.

Leonard swallowed hard, gripping his pen. A quiet realization took root. He wasn’t the first.

The door to Braxton’s office stood slightly ajar. Through the narrow gap, Leonard glimpsed a younger man, early thirties, standing stiffly before the boss’s desk. Hands clasped behind his back, posture obedient. Braxton leaned back, thick fingers drumming lazily against the wood.

Leonard’s breath caught. He looked away, pulse hammering.

A quiet chuckle reached his ears. He turned sharply. It was Feldman, the older accountant with the graying mustache. He was stirring his coffee, watching Leonard with a small, knowing smile.

"You get used to it," Feldman murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "The day after…." He took a slow sip. "You’ll understand soon enough."

Heat crawled up Leonard’s neck.

Feldman leaned in. "You’ll realize it’s easier this way. You’ll stop questioning it. You might even start to like it."

Leonard’s stomach twisted. He wanted to protest, but the words stuck. Because deep down, in the part of himself he was trying desperately to ignore, he knew last night hadn’t just been about submission. It had been about something else. Something he might not be able to stop.