Chapter 12. Knox
From the twenty-second floor, the people down there were nothing more than ants.
Usually, this view gave me a sense of order.
Today, however, the reflection in the glass seemed to belong to a stranger.
I swirled the cold remnants of an espresso in my cup, the dark liquid leaving bitter trails against the porcelain. My focus was destroyed.
My thumb hovered over the screen of my phone, scrolling back up to the conversation that had dominated my week.
It had been two weeks since I picked Florian up from his campus.
Two weeks since I had broken my own rules, shattered my resolve to leave him alone, and spanked him in the back of my Audi.
I looked at the phone, seeing not the screen, but the memory of his face streaked with tears, the way his breath had hitched when I held him, the absolute, shattering relief when I told him I wouldn't let go.
I had tried to cut him off before that. I had spent a week in silence, convincing myself it was for his own good.
I was forty-eight; he was twenty-one. He wasn't a professional sex worker, and I wasn't in the habit of exploiting vulnerable boys who needed a savior.
It had been ridiculously hard. I spent the whole week trying to forget his angelic face, his honesty, his delicious body, his bratty and witty responses, the way he shivered and moaned.
Trying to convince myself that by leaving him alone, I wouldn’t sound like a creep preying.
If he texted me, that would be something else, and I’d have an excuse to answer.
But that hadn’t been the case. Logic had dictated I walk away.
But looking at the text chain now, I knew logic had lost the war a long time ago.
It had been a mistake to leave, and I didn’t intend to make this mistake twice.
Buzz.
Vibration against the mahogany desk. I shouldn't have been looking. I had a stack of acquisition reports for the new logistics subsidiary that required my signature, and a meeting in twenty minutes.
I picked it up anyway.
Florian: Daddy, I’ve been good… mostly.
A smirk cut across my face. I could almost hear his voice, that breathless mix of defiance and submission. Mostly. That single word made my cock twitch.
Me: Define "mostly," Florian.
I set the phone down, forcing myself to pick up a pen. The ink flowed smoothly onto the heavy paper of the contract, but my mind was already racing ahead to the potential punishments for "mostly" good behavior.
Buzz.
Florian: Well, I didn't buy the textbook for Brain Anatomy because it was $300 and that seemed like a scam.
I found a PDF online instead. ?? And I did eat lunch.
A real one. Not just a Red Bull. Though I may have had one of those too...
Don't be mad, Daddy. The cafeteria line was sooooo long and I had to stay awake somehow.
I felt a tightness in my chest loosen. He was eating. I had transferred a significant allowance to him the morning after the car incident, but knowing Florian, he probably felt guilty spending a dime of it.
We had agreed to start a dynamic in a low-key way. We texted every day, loads of banter, getting to know each other with dates in between. So far, it had been the light of my days, getting those texts, yearning to meet him in person again. It made me feel like a teenager again.
Me: Good boy. Nutrition is non-negotiable. ONE Red Bull is fine. Buy the book, Florian. Use the card. If I see you failing because you were too stubborn to use my resources, we will have a very different conversation when we see each other again.
I hit send just as my office door opened. My assistant Sarah, a woman of formidable efficiency who had managed my life for a decade without ever cracking a smile, stepped in. She was blond and beautiful, and knew I respected her above all, and not every boss did that.
"Mr. Knox? The board is ready for the quarterly projection review."
I cleared my throat, the transition from Daddy to CEO taking a split second longer than I would have liked. "Thank you. I'll be right there."
She lingered for a fraction of a second, her gaze darting to the phone still illuminated in my hand, then back to my face. She didn't say anything, she would never, but the slight arch of her eyebrow spoke volumes. I was never late. I was never distracted.
I stood, clearing my throat, buttoning my jacket, and slid the phone into my inner pocket. It rested against my ribs.
The boardroom was air-conditioned to a sterile chill, probably to make everyone a little uncomfortable.
Twelve men and women in suits sat around the elongated oval table, shuffling papers.
I took my seat at the head. Before inheriting my parents’ business, I never imagined rooms like this actually existed in real life, only in movies.
"Let's begin," I said. "The Q3 figures for the shipping division are concerning."
As the CFO began his drone about fuel costs and international tariffs, I felt the phantom vibration against my chest. I ignored it. I was a man of discipline.
Two minutes passed.
Buzz.
It was subtle, muffled by the wool of my suit, but it felt like a shout. I shifted in my chair. The CFO was pointing at a graph that looked like a descending staircase.
Buzz.
I casually reached into my jacket, keeping my face fixed on the presentation screen with an expression of deep, analytical contemplation. I pulled the phone out under the lip of the table, shielding it with my palm.
Florian: [Image Attachment]
I tapped it. It was a photo of a quiz paper, the top corner circled in red ink: 98% - Excellent Work! Beneath the paper, I could see his thighs, clad in worn denim, and just a hint of his hand resting casually, provocatively, near his crotch.
Florian: Do I get a reward for acing my test, Daddy? I deserve one! Please!
A sound escaped me, a short, rough huff of laughter that sounded terrifyingly loud in the quiet room.
The CFO stopped mid-sentence. "Sir? Is there an error in the projections?"
I looked up. Every face at the table was turned toward me. The silence was absolute. I realized then that my thumb was stroking the side of the phone, a caress meant for the boy miles away.
"No," I said, smoothing my features into a mask of indifference, though I felt the heat of amusement curling in my gut. "Continue, Josh. The EBITDA looks... promising. Carry on."
I saw two junior executives at the far end of the table exchange a glance.
One mouthed something to the other. Promising?
Usually, I would have flayed Josh alive for numbers like these.
But today, the numbers didn't matter. What mattered was the boy who had begun to bloom under my attention.
The sass was just his way of asking for more while pretending he didn't need it.
Under the table, I typed a reply.
Me: 98 is acceptable. The other 2 percent suggests you were distracted. We can discuss your reward later. I have something in mind.
He knew I was just playing. I knew 98 for a boy who was days from failing sounded like a small miracle. Knowing I helped him indirectly made my whole body warm.
Sending the message felt illicit, a rush of adrenaline that beat any corporate takeover I’d orchestrated in the last five years. I felt alive. The gray monotony of my empire had been pierced by a streak of blond hair and needy blue eyes.
Later that evening, back in my office, the sun had dipped below the horizon, turning the sky into purple. I should have gone home hours ago. Instead, I was reviewing a merger agreement, though I had read the same paragraph four times.
Sarah came in to drop off the final pouch of mail. "You're in a good mood today, sir," she observed, her tone carefully neutral.
I looked up, surprised. "Am I?"
"You've been... smiling all day."
I stiffened. And I didn’t even care about it: a small part of me wanted people to notice the effect that boy had on me. "Gamification of the workflow. It's quite engaging."
She didn't believe me, I could see it in the way her lips pressed together, but she nodded. "Of course. Goodnight, Mr. Knox."
"Goodnight."
When the door clicked shut, I abandoned the merger. I picked up the phone and dialed. It rang once before he picked up.
"Daddy!" His voice was sleepy, soft, stripped of the bratty armor he wore over text.
"Florian," I said, leaning back in my chair and watching the city lights flicker on below. "Tell me exactly what you're wearing."
The breath he let out was shaky, audible. "Just... just my boxers."
The admission hit me harder than the whiskey I sometimes poured myself at this hour. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness of the office wrap around me.
"Good boy for telling me," I murmured. "Keep them on. I want to see you in them when I close my eyes tonight."
"Okay, Daddy," he whispered.
We talked some more before hanging up, about his day, his friend called Luna, his shift at the grocery store.
I felt myself smiling all along. When we did hang up, I placed the phone on the desk and let out a breath.
I was a man who had built a fortress. I wanted solitude to protect myself from the chaos of emotion.
That’s why I hired boys in the first place, so I would never feel anything real. But now, I was willingly lowering the drawbridge for a boy who brought chaos with him like a storm.
The phone vibrated again almost as soon as I set it down. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot. If my assistant saw me now, she’d schedule an intervention.
Florian: [Image Attachment]
I opened the photo, expecting perhaps a messy room selfie, a sheepish smile, maybe even that ridiculous stuffed dog he sometimes confessed to sleeping with. Instead, what I received was obscene.
He’d angled the phone low, catching himself from thigh to chin.
He was sprawled on an unmade bed, sheets tangled around his knees, one hand resting behind his head as if he’d just woken up that way.
The boxers were pale blue, clinging to the outline of his cock, which was straining against the fabric with no attempt at disguise.
His skin was flushed, bitten pink at the hips, and he was looking directly into the camera with a challenge.
My cock twitched in my slacks, as if it had been waiting all week for this exact moment of weakness.
Florian: missing you, Daddy, I think I'll have to rub a quick one.
God, the brat was going to kill me.
I typed back, one-handed.
Me: Don't you dare touch what's mine without permission.
Florian: but if it’s yours, shouldn’t you come claim it? Seems lonely over here…
Me: Don’t push it, Florian. You’ll regret it when you can’t sit down for your exam tomorrow.
Three dots flashed and vanished. I imagined him squirming in his tiny bed, half-terrified, half-thrilled. I pictured the way he’d blush, the way the air would tremble between us if I showed up at his door. My cock twitched painfully.
Florian: no I won’t regret it, it might even make me ace it. can i call you before i go to sleep? promise i’ll be good.
I should have said no. I should have let the anticipation build. But my willpower was paper-thin, and I’d spent all day playing the part of a man who could control everything.
Me: FaceTime. I want to see those boxers.
I barely had time to pour myself a drink before the phone rang, his name illuminating the screen with that flower emoji he’d set for himself.
I answered. There he was, in his tiny cinderblock bedroom, bathed in the blue light of his laptop. His hair was a mess, his face bare and vulnerable and young. He looked up at me with those eyes, and I felt the thread in my gut snap all over again.
“Hi,” he said, voice small and shy, so at odds with the picture he’d just sent.
“Hi, boy,” I replied. “Show me.”
He angled the phone down, and I got an even better view: his thighs sprawled, legs splayed, the fabric tented obscenely.
He kept one hand on the waistband, thumb hooked dangerously close to slipping it down.
He looked nervous, gnawing at his lower lip, watching me through the screen for any sign of approval or warning.
"Do you remember what I said, Florian?" I asked, letting my tone drop to that register I knew made him shudder.
He bit back a grin. "Not to touch. But I'm not touching," he pointed out, waggling his hands above his head.
I arched an eyebrow, fighting back a smile. Within seconds, the bravado wilted. His hand dropped, hovering on the comforter.
"But my brain wants me to," he admitted. "It won't turn off."
"Good."
He blinked. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk so my face filled his screen. "I want you aching. I want you thinking about this, about me, every time you get hard in class, or in the shower, or when you roll over in the morning. I want you ruined before I even touch you again."
He made a helpless, soft noise. I relished it.
"I can be good," he said, the plea coloring his voice. "I swear, I'll wait however long you say."
Such a good boy. He was the kind of boy who needed limits, who needed to test every last one placed in front of him. And I'd make him do it.
"Slide your hand under the waistband," I instructed.
His eyes widened. He obeyed instantly, slipping his hand just under the band, fingers flexing against the straining fabric. I could see him fighting to keep it chaste, to show me he hadn't lost control.
"Now drag your nails, lightly, just above the shaft. You may not touch yourself directly."
He shivered, following the command, biting down even harder on his lip.
"Every time you feel an urge to stroke it, remember how I bent you over the back seat and made you cry for me," I said. "Remember how helpless you felt, how much you needed the pain before you could feel safe. I want you to picture that every single time you ache for release."
He let out a shaky breath, hips twitching up involuntarily.
"Now stop," I said.
His hand froze, then withdrew, leaving a visible wet spot on the boxers. He whined, the sound pure and desperate.
"You did so well for Daddy, and I'll reward you," I said, softer this time. The brat craved discipline, but he also craved praise. "Sleep like that. Don’t you dare touch yourself without permission. Do you understand? I want you desperate and aching for when I put my hands on you."
"Yes, Daddy," he whispered, eyes huge and shining.
I slept deeply that night, thinking of my boy.