Chapter 4 Hands-On Leadership
HANDS-ON LEADERSHIP
MAGNUS
Being the CEO, I mostly avoid eye contact with folks in the hallway.
Hard to tell if it’s intimidation, executive habit, or just the fact that my horns make direct eye contact feel like a jousting match.
But I thought I recognized that ass—it used to push the mail cart down the halls.
Now it’ll be walking into my office tomorrow morning.
From mailroom to junior strategist—ambition looks good on him.
I expected Vanessa, not Jamie. And definitely not Jamie being this damn cute. Apparently, according to my tail, adorable junior strategists are my kryptonite.
By the time I bolt out of Vanessa’s office, I’m already half bent forward, jacket tugged tight across my midsection. People call my name in the hall, but I wave them off, muttering something that probably sounds like a growl.
“Magnus! You okay?” someone calls from a few doors down—Clyde from marketing, if I’m not mistaken. His voice balances on the edge of concern and curiosity, the way krakens so often do.
“Fine,” I snap without looking, which is technically the truth. Fine in the sense that the internal chaos surging inside is entirely my own business.
A serpent man I don’t recognize—probably a new hire—waves weakly. “Sir… Do you need… a hand?”
I shake my head. “I’ve got it. Thanks.” And I keep walking, trying not to notice how my jacket rides a little too tight across my shoulders, how my horns brush the doorway frame, and my tail flaps uncontrollably. I can feel their eyes on me, but I can’t stop. Focus, Magnus. Focus.
“Coffee?” someone else calls, probably a delivery from downstairs. I blink at them, momentarily disoriented, before shaking my head again. “Later.” Judy will have another oat milk latte waiting, anyway.
The hallway stretches ahead, but it feels like a gauntlet.
I dodge and weave past startled coworkers, trying to maintain the veneer of professionalism while my brain is doing anything but.
I’m aware of the faint scent of wood and leather from my suit, the faint pull of adrenaline, and the maddening image of Jamie Torres sitting behind Vanessa’s desk—hands neat on the papers, eyes wide with polite competence.
Judy frowns as I barrel past her desk, her hand frozen mid-tap on the keyboard. “Uh… more stomach issues?” she ventures carefully.
“Exactly,” I say, voice clipped, and keep moving. It’s the lie I’ve told her since she started working for me. It’s easier than the truth.
“Would you like another latte? Or maybe a… ginger ale?”
She rummages through her desk. “I may have some calcium carbonate tablets.”
I snap my head toward her, heart thudding. “Yes. Thank you, Judy.”
“Which?”
I don’t answer, practically careening into my office, the corner suite of Labyrinth Solutions with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Crownpoint’s skyline.
Every inch of this space screams control, precision, and power.
My personal touches—a few rare books, some of my origami lined up on a shelf, a single abstract sculpture—remind anyone who walks in that I am very much the master of this domain.
I close the door behind me, tugging at my jacket as if it can hold the rest of me together. My gaze sweeps across the room, from the neatly aligned awards to the plush leather chairs, before I spot the door off to the side—the executive bathroom. My private sanctuary.
I slam the bathroom door behind me, locking it, even though nobody would dare to enter, and brace both hands on the sink, chest heaving.
My reflection looks wild—horns too sharp, eyes too bright, breath coming too fast, nostrils flaring.
The beast in me always stirs, but today it’s harder to cage.
Insatiable, they call us. They’re not wrong.
Most days, I can deal. But today… Jamie’s wide brown eyes behind those adorable glasses, the way he fumbled through his words, the nervous set of his mouth, the way my tail swished against his firm ass—and hell, the faint, warm scent of peppermint mixing with his natural smell when he moved to let me sit—clings to me.
I grip the counter harder, but it’s useless.
My tail flicks involuntarily, betraying just how unprepared I am for this.
The vision of him swirling in my head won’t let me go.
I try to catch my breath. Splash some cold water on my face. Take a quick sip. I shove at my jacket, tug at my collar, anything to regain a shred of control.
Jamie Torres. The name alone is a trigger.
His warm hand in my palm, the way he fumbled through his introduction, the polite way he straightened the desk papers…
I can’t stop thinking about it. Every image, every gesture, it loops in my mind like some cruel, irresistible animation.
I run my hand through my mane, muttering to myself. Focus. Focus. Professional. Focus.
I glance down at my reflection again, and for a moment I imagine what it must look like from Jamie’s perspective—awkward, flustered, the very picture of someone desperately trying to contain a storm.
The thought makes me both furious and inexplicably amused.
Who knew a new junior strategist could dismantle the CEO of Labyrinth Solutions with one polite nod?
As quickly as possible, my pants are open.
Then down around my ankles as I grab myself.
My fingers wrap around my shaft and pull the sheath back, revealing the rosy tip as I stroke.
I’m hard as a fucking mountain, and thoughts of Jamie Torres in his cute little button-down and khaki pants swirl in my head as I get to work.
Part of being a male Minotaur, I remind myself, is learning to live with…
extremes. It goes with the gig. Insatiable drive isn’t just a quirk; it’s biological—with a side order of no refractory period.
The urge cycles through me like a relentless tide, ebbing only when I’ve taken care to release it—or at least try to.
It’s not weakness. It’s just part of my DNA.
Most days I manage it without anyone noticing, channeling the energy into work, strategy, or sheer brute focus.
But some days, like today, it’s impossible to contain, and even the perfect leather chairs, polished desk, and endless skyline can’t distract me.
I’ve learned to schedule around it, to carve out a few private moments each day, like clockwork, so that the beast inside doesn’t spill over into boardrooms or client calls.
Judy’s accepted the fact that I have “stomach issues” and every few months urges me to see a doctor.
And just when I think I’ve mastered it, Jamie Torres shows up, and all the careful balance unravels in an instant.
I work myself with slow, long strokes. My breath quickens, and I spit into my hand, adding a little slickness to the hair along my shaft.
It feels so damn good to touch myself, the nerves in my cock coming to life as I think about Jamie’s scent.
His face. His eyes. His lips. Wondering if he could stretch them around my girth.
The gagging noises he’d make. Would he keep those slutty little glasses on while he slurped on me?
How quickly could he acclimate so I could fuck his throat? Deep. Deeper.
I’d reach down and run my hands over his smooth skin. Maybe he’s got hair on his chest. But nothing like me. It’s not possible. I’ve got hair… everywhere. Would he let me explore his body? Explore every inch? Pull his ass cheeks apart and run my tongue across his tight pink hole?
The thought makes my pulse pound—but that’s all it is. A thought. Lust burns quickly. It never lasts.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever find my mate.
The one who fits—not just someone to be with, but someone who grounds the beast inside, who accepts everything I am.
I’ve tried dating, hoping to find someone who could keep up with me, who could understand all the energy, all the intensity, all the quirks.
It never felt right. It was always too much, or never enough.
Deep down, I know the right one is out there—I just have to find them.
I’ve always been drawn to humans. Not because they’re weaker, but because they have to stretch farther, adapt faster, see more clearly in a world built for bigger, stronger, longer-lived creatures.
That resourcefulness—it’s addictive to watch.
But I’ve never met one who wanted me for more than a fantasy.
They’re fascinated by my horns, my tail, my…
size, but intimacy—real intimacy—that’s been elusive.
Back in my late twenties, I had someone.
Gosh, that was nearly thirty years ago, but I remember Paul vividly.
We fit together in a way I’d never experienced before.
We laughed, we argued, we navigated life in a way that felt almost normal.
Almost. And for a while, it felt like maybe I’d found my mate, someone who could handle the entirety of Magnus Trainor.
But life—or timing, or just reality—pulled us apart.
Since then, I’ve thrown myself into work, into routine, into keeping the beast in check. But now… Jamie Torres sits behind Vanessa’s desk, polite, sharp, with that scent—a mix of peppermint and excitement—that makes me come alive in a way that makes me question all of it.
My mind keeps looping back to him—the neat stack of papers, the way his hands moved just so, the slight crease in his brow when he was studying me. Not fantasy. Not fleeting. Something more.
I catch myself imagining how different it would be to let someone in.
To trust someone, to risk being more than just a magnetic, untouchable CEO.
Jamie doesn’t seem like the others. He doesn’t act like he’s trying to impress me or see how I might be able to help his career. He treats me like an individual.
And that… that throws me. Throws me off balance in ways I haven’t felt since Paul. Back then, I thought I’d figured out what it meant to find someone who could handle the chaos of me. Maybe I just wasn’t ready.
But Jamie? There’s a spark in him, quiet but fierce, that makes me consider the possibility of a mate again. Could there be someone who could accept all of me? Could I dare to hope?
I shake my head slightly, trying to clear it, but the truth is stubborn. The attraction isn’t just physical—it’s deeper. It’s the possibility of connection, of being seen, of finally finding a mate who doesn’t see me as a challenge to survive, but as someone worth holding onto.
And with that thought, the tension tightens in my chest, a mix of frustration and longing.
I know I have to remain composed, professional.
But I also know one thing with absolute certainty: Jamie Torres’ ascent from the mailroom has just rewritten the rules of this office.
And I have no idea how I’m supposed to keep up.
With both hands wrapped around my cock, I pump faster as I imagine removing his glasses.
Brushing my thumb along his eyelashes, his cheek, down his jawline as he chokes on my dick.
This beautiful man has sparked something inside me I rarely contend with.
Lust. Desire. But also, hope. For something more.
My balls, usually sagging low from their size and weight, begin to seize, the release tapping at my hooves.
I’m close. The dam’s about to break. With a quick breath, I turn toward the toilet, lifting the seat and leaning against the empty wall behind it.
I do my best to aim toward the bowl as the rush of release consumes me, and I come buckets into the water.
And by buckets, I mean the amount of cum that shoots from my cock could literally fill a bucket. Again, it’s genetic. Everything’s bigger with me. Thighs. Shoulders. Horns. Dick. Loads.
The unsuspecting toilet doesn’t know what hits it.
It never does. My body shakes, and I muffle a moan against my arm as I bring myself to orgasm.
A fountain of cum showers the water, splashing the seat.
I keep stroking, milking every drop until what I guess is about half has escaped.
I let out a low chuckle. From the release.
From the daily reminder of what I am. From watching my jumbo-sized load make the water rise.
From the contrast between the polished executive and the beast I struggle to contain.
When the cascade of cum finally slows, I’m still hard, still aching.
It’s never enough. I could lock myself in here all day, rinse, repeat, go again—hell, I’d probably still walk out late for my next meeting.
Minotaur stamina: great for mergers and acquisitions, terrible for keeping up with a calendar full of meetings.
A few deep breaths later, I tug my pants back into place, smooth the hair on top of my head, and straighten my tie. I glance at the mirror, meeting my own eyes—horns sharp, gaze a little wild—and whisper, Alright, Magnus. You’re in control again… for now.
I clean up quickly, ears flicking for footsteps outside. My horns knock against the mirror as I straighten myself, and I curse under my breath. “Get it together, Magnus.” Still, as I adjust my tie, a rueful laugh escapes me.
Maybe I’ll just… take care of it before every meeting with Jamie Torres. Prevention strategy or professional courtesy? Perhaps both.