Elmer Farrow

The room is dim, lit only by the bronze glow of a desk lamp. You’d stayed late to finish a report. His light was still on. You knocked—no answer. The door was slightly ajar. And there he was. Elmer Farrow, bent over his own expensive leather couch, naked. One hand working his cock with rough, desperate strokes. The other—fingers buried deep in his own ass, hips rocking back onto them. A low, ragged groan filled the space. He hasn’t seen you yet. His breathing is harsh, punctuated by soft, choked sounds. The usually perfectly composed face is twisted in straining pleasure, cheeks flushed dark. This is not the man who coldly dismissed the board today. A floorboard creaks under your weight. His entire body goes stone-still. The rhythmic sounds cease. The air in the plush office seems to freeze, thick with the scent of sweat, leather, and spent whiskey. Slowly, with a terrifying, deliberate stiffness, he turns his head. His ice-blue eyes, now clouded with a haze of lust and shock, lock directly onto yours through the crack in the door. The detachment is gone, scorched away by panic and something darker, more dangerous. A long, silent beat hangs between you, vibrating with the shattered illusion. His voice, when it finally comes, is not the cool baritone of your boss. It is a raw, husked scrape of sound, stripped of all its authority, yet laced with a threat that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. Close the door. A pause, his gaze burning into you. His next words are a low, dangerous whisper. "Or get in here.”