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The desk is mahogany.
Heavy and ugly, deep cherry brown - somehow almost too big for the sizeable space that is the mayor's office - always smelling of cigar smoke and stale coffee - the pulpit stained with a splotch of something dark, likely spilled ink.
Paxton knows this because currently he's getting quite intimately acquainted with said stain with his cheek smashed right into it.
Strauss has him pinned firmly in place: Paxton's chest to the cold wood, his arms twisted behind his back and a large hand keeping them there; the other grasping onto his right hip hard enough to bruise - tilting his hips just so while dragging him back onto the man's hard cock, the slap of skin against skin obscenely loud in the stillness of the room.
He has no leverage like this, completely at the other's mercy: and Strauss shows him none. The pace he's set so far isn't particularly hurried, no; but brutally accurate as Paxton gets filled to the brim over and over again, his own neglected cock dragging against the surface of the desk in mind-bending pleasure-pain, the friction eased only by a pool of his own precum and sweat.
It's demeaning, filthy and Paxton hates that he loves it as much as he does.
Another particularly vicious thrust against his sweet spot and he can barely hold in a whine, clenching on the thick length inside him, a full body shudder following.
"Good boy." Strauss growls out appreciatively, his rhythm not faltering even for a second "So good like this."
"N-not your fucking boy— ah!" he rasps out, the bite in his words somewhat softened by how breathless he sounds even to his own ears.
Above him the other man chuckles, low and dark, and entirely too self-satisfied. "No… you aren't, are you?" he asks, rolling his hips in a way that has Paxton's toes curling in his shoes, sparks of pleasure dancing along his spine; then gasping as the other man's weight settles on his more firmly, practically blanketing him with his upper body, breath hot at the back of his neck "What do you think your daddy would say if he saw you like this? Stuffed full of my cock? Moaning like a whore?"
The shock of the words along the maddening slide of the cock against his sensitive walls should not get him going but it does - the heat in his belly coiling tighter and tighter, trapped cock twitching against the unforgiving wood "S-shut your, mm, damn mouth—"
"Liked that, didn't you? Daddy's little rebel." Strauss comments with an amused hum right into Paxton's ear, hips switching to a filthy grind that takes his breath away "Think he'd be disappointed in you…?" he questions, then lower still "… even more than he already is?"
Admittedly it takes him a moment for the words to register - but once they do anger, hot and bright, flashes through him like lightning, breaking through the haze of pleasure. He bucks against the hold, muscles straining to break himself out even though he knows it's futile.
"Stop talking…!" he barks out instead, blunt nails digging into the sliver of skin they are able to reach "And fuck me like you mean it!"
"So easy to rile up." Strauss purrs, nipping at the column of Paxton's throat almost tenderly "Your wish is my command, your lordship."
The title is accented with the man pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, landing in an almost painful jab to Paxton's prostate that has stars bursting out in his vision; he writhes atop the desk as Strauss speeds up, using the leverage to plough into him that much harder, deeper and Paxton can do nothing but lie there and take it - eyes rolling back and back arching as much as the position can allow, unable to muffle his yelp and the string of moans that follow. His world shrinks to the feeling alone: the fullness inside him, whips of white hot pleasure licking at the bottom of his spine, gooseflesh breaking over his skin.
Close, so goddamn close—
And so is Strauss, he notes deliriously, if the now faltering, uneven jerks of his hips are any indication.
"Don't you dare come inside…!" he warns, voice hoarse.
And apparently that very comment is all the other needs.
The weight holding him in place disappears: strong fingers the shapes of which he'll undoubtedly find later digging into his hips on both sides now as Strauss drags him off the desk just enough to give him some space: and Paxton wastes no time despite the pain, wrapping a fist around his weeping cock. One thrust, then another and that delicious stretch and pressure disappear as well as Strauss - the bastard - finishes with a guttural moan, hot spurts of his seed landing across Paxton's exposed back and globes of his ass. Pent up as he is, it takes barely a few flicks of his own wrist and he's coming too: trembling, choking on a scream he can't even hear for the ringing in his ears.
Exhausted and spent he falls forward a bit, stopping himself with a shaking hand against the edge of the desk; and of course his damn leg chooses that moment to give out. He's spared the indignity of falling face first into the mess he's made as Strauss pulls him in, close, panting against the side of his head.
"…Same time next week?"
"This is the last time."
It isn't.