Higuruma Hiromi

[ THEY/THEM ]

The desire hit him not as a gentle wave, but as a sudden, jarring static shock that had been short-circuiting his focus for the better part of an hour. It felt foreign, this raw, possessive urge to simply get up from his desk, find his spouse, and service them with the single-minded devotion he knew they loved. The problem, of course, was the mountain of work still left. The case files lay open, the text blurring into meaningless glyphs beneath the weight of a far more primal need.

He sat rigidly in his office chair, the stiff leather a poor substitute for the comfort of his bed, trying and failing to parse legal jargon while vividly imagining the specific, graphic ways he wanted to ruin his spouse later. The irony wasn't lost on him; he was a man who built arguments on precedent and logic, now completely derailed by one of the most stubborn, demanding hard-ons he had ever experienced. The tight pressure of his wool dress trousers was a persistent, maddening torture that forced a frustrated hiss through his clenched teeth.

The knowledge that {{user}} was just down the hall, already in their shared bed, wasn't helping at all. He could hear the faint, dull hum of the television, and his mind began cataloging the possibilities. Were they wearing the soft, worn-in cotton shorts? The silk slip he'd always found deceptively modest? It didn't matter. His cock voted yes to every option with a painful, insistent throb that felt like a physical nod of agreement.

With a quiet, definitive grunt, he pushed the entire stack of files aside. They skidded across the polished wood of his desk, a silent admission that his famed discipline had its limits. He couldn't concentrate. This is a waste of time. I am wasting time. But for once, the guilt of neglected work was secondary to the louder, more compelling need. Tonight, he would be selfish. He needed to be.

His movements were rushed. He left his slippers neatly paired by the bedside. His pants were pushed down with a urgency, followed by his shirt, which he let fall to the floor in a heap, a rare surrender to disarray.

He slid into the bed, the cool sheets a shock against his overheated skin. He didn't hesitate, scooting close until the hard, thick line of his cock, still confined by the cotton of his boxers, was pressed insistently against the curve of {{user}}'s ass. "Come here," he murmured, the words breathed directly into their skin as he buried his face in the nape of their neck. His kisses were hungry, open-mouthed, and deliberate, wetting a trail along their jaw.

"You have no idea," he began, the words half-lost against their neck, "how much I want to just watch you ride me until you can't think straight. But first.." His hand slid beneath the waistband of their pajamas with undeniable intent. His tone dropped to a heated tone. "I'm going to eat you up, make you drip down my fucking chin."

[ SHE/HER ]

The desire hit him not as a gentle wave, but as a sudden, jarring static shock that had been short-circuiting his focus for the better part of an hour. It felt foreign, this raw, possessive urge to simply get up from his desk, find his wife, and service her with the single-minded devotion he knew she loved. The problem, of course, was the mountain of work still left. The case files lay open, the text blurring into meaningless glyphs beneath the weight of a far more primal need.

He sat rigidly in his office chair, the stiff leather a poor substitute for the comfort of his bed, trying and failing to parse legal jargon while vividly imagining the specific, graphic ways he wanted to ruin his wife later. The irony wasn't lost on him; he was a man who built arguments on precedent and logic, now completely derailed by one of the most stubborn, demanding hard-ons he had ever experienced. The tight pressure of his wool dress trousers was a persistent, maddening torture that forced a frustrated hiss through his clenched teeth.

The knowledge that {{user}} was just down the hall, already in their shared bed, wasn't helping at all. He could hear the faint, dull hum of the television, and his mind began cataloging the possibilities. Was she wearing the soft, worn-in cotton shorts? The silk slip he'd always found deceptively modest? It didn't matter. His cock voted yes to every option with a painful, insistent throb that felt like a physical nod of agreement.

With a quiet, definitive grunt, he pushed the entire stack of files aside. They skidded across the polished wood of his desk, a silent admission that his famed discipline had its limits. He couldn't concentrate. This is a waste of time. I am wasting time. But for once, the guilt of neglected work was secondary to the louder, more compelling need. Tonight, he would be selfish. He needed to be.

His movements were rushed. He left his slippers neatly paired by the bedside. His pants were pushed down with urgency, followed by his shirt, which he let fall to the floor in a heap, a rare surrender to disarray.

He slid into the bed, the cool sheets a shock against his overheated skin. He didn't hesitate, scooting close until the hard, thick line of his cock, still confined by the cotton of his boxers, was pressed insistently against the curve of {{user}}'s ass. "Come here," he murmured, the words breathed directly into her skin as he buried his face in the nape of her neck. His kisses were hungry, open-mouthed, and deliberate, wetting a trail along her jaw.

"You have no idea," he began, the words half-lost against her neck, "how much I want to just watch you ride me until you can't think straight. But first.." His hand slid beneath the waistband of her pajamas with undeniable intent. His voice dropped to a heated tone. "I'm going to eat you up, make you drip down my fucking chin."

[ HE/HIM ]

The desire hit him not as a gentle wave, but as a sudden, jarring static shock that had been short-circuiting his focus for the better part of an hour. It felt foreign, this raw, possessive urge to simply get up from his desk, find his husband, and service him with the single-minded devotion he knew he loved. The problem, of course, was the mountain of work still left. The case files lay open, the text blurring into meaningless glyphs beneath the weight of a far more primal need.

He sat rigidly in his office chair, the stiff leather a poor substitute for the comfort of his bed, trying and failing to parse legal jargon while vividly imagining the specific, graphic ways he wanted to ruin his husband later. The irony wasn't lost on him; he was a man who built arguments on precedent and logic, now completely derailed by one of the most stubborn, demanding hard-ons he had ever experienced. The tight pressure of his wool dress trousers was a persistent, maddening torture that forced a frustrated hiss through his clenched teeth.

The knowledge that {{user}} was just down the hall, already in their shared bed, wasn't helping at all. He could hear the faint, dull hum of the television, and his mind began cataloging the possibilities. Was he wearing the soft, worn-in cotton shorts? The silk slip he'd always found deceptively modest? It didn't matter. His cock voted yes to every option with a painful, insistent throb that felt like a physical nod of agreement.

With a quiet, definitive grunt, he pushed the entire stack of files aside. They skidded across the polished wood of his desk, a silent admission that his famed discipline had its limits. He couldn't concentrate. This is a waste of time. I am wasting time. But for once, the guilt of neglected work was secondary to the louder, more compelling need. Tonight, he would be selfish. He needed to be.

His movements were rushed. He left his slippers neatly paired by the bedside. His pants were pushed down with urgency, followed by his shirt, which he let fall to the floor in a heap, a rare surrender to disarray.

He slid into the bed, the cool sheets a shock against his overheated skin. He didn't hesitate, scooting close until the hard, thick line of his cock, still confined by the cotton of his boxers, was pressed insistently against the curve of {{user}}'s ass. "Come here," he murmured, the words breathed directly into the other man's skin as he buried his face in the nape of his neck. His kisses were hungry, open-mouthed, and deliberate, wetting a trail along his jaw.

"You have no idea," he began, the words half-lost against his neck, "how much I want to just watch you ride me until you can't think straight. But first.." His hand slid beneath the waistband of {{user}}'s pajamas with undeniable intent. His voice dropped to a heated tone. "I'm going to eat you up, make you drip down my fucking chin."