BY : bakedgoldfish
Category: S through Z > West Wing
Dragon prints: 1137
Disclaimer: I do not own The West Wing, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Title: Desecration
Author: Priya Deonarain
Rated: NC-17
Characters: Leo/Jed, Leo first person POV
Disclaimer: You know the drill. Don't sue the poor college student. I'm just taking a break from the studying, is all. TWW is owned by WB & NBC, and "Closer to God," which was the inspiration for this little ditty, is owned by Nine Inch Nails and Trent Reznor, and probably a whole lot more people.
Warnings: Well, descriptions of semi-rough sex. Liberal usage of the 'f' word.
Summary: Leo channels our dear Trent Reznor. A PWP ensues.

I wanna fuck you.

You're sitting here, in the Roosevelt Room. At that big, long, wooden table, and you're talking to the leadership. Their aides are here, too. You're explaining some economic theory to them. You're at the head of the table, and I'm near the other end. Just sitting in the background. Watching you spout out facts on the stock market, and inflation, and currency, and the budget.

And all I can think of is how much I want to fuck you. How much I want to be in you.

I see it clearly. They all clear out, except you and me. And you'd ask me what's wrong. And then I'd throw you down on that table, and crush your face against the cool wooden surface, snap off your belt, tear your slacks down to your ankles and just fuck you til you can't breathe anymore. Til you can't see straight anymore. Til you don't even remember who you are.

Thank God that this table is here, because otherwise the leadership and their aides would bear witness to this raging hard-on I've got going on right now. Somehow, I don't think they'd appreciate it the same way you do.

You know, I want to fuck you so bad that I can feel it. I can taste it. I can breathe it. Your scent, the way the smell of the soap mingles with that of your sweat. Your taste, hot and sweet and fresh, and it makes me so much hungrier for you. Makes me want to devour you. God, and the way you writhe under my touch. No matter if it's so soft that I'm barely grazing your hot skin, or so hard that I'm leaving bruises.

I love leaving bruises. Brands you as mine.

You know how your eyes get when I'm fucking you? Those bright silver-blue discs. They become dazed, unfocused with lust. They tell me you want me. They tell me you need me, need me to do you harder and faster. They make me wanna pound you so hard that you move the bed, or the table, or the sofa, or whatever surface it is I'm fucking you on. And the sounds you make, those little gasps and sighs. You can't talk when I'm in you. You can't even *think* when I'm in you. All you can do is moan and whimper and beg and plead and push up against me when I tease you. You know what I mean. When I'm on top of you, and you can't move, and I've got my cock pressed right up against you and there's not a damn thing you can do about it. And then I'm inside you faster than you can scream.

Oh, but I always make you scream. Always.

I want to be inside of you. RIGHT NOW. I want to violate you, your sensibilities. I want to break you. I want to break your mind. I want you to know nothing about economics, about policies, about which senator is from where and what party. I want you to know nothing at all. Except me. And what it feels like to have me desecrating your body, your sanctity. I want you to know nothing except me riding you, bucking into you, thrusting so hard I have to grunt with the sheer exertion. I want there to be nothing but that basal animalistic quality of sex. Of me. In you. Penetrating you. Fast, hard, carnal knowledge.

I love you for your mind, but I don't want you to be able to think when I'm in you. I want you to be mine, from right when I first crush my lips to yours and invade your mouth with my tongue, to the very point where I scream out your name and release into you. To the point, even, when I collapse on top of you, breathing so hard that I think I'll pass out. To the very point where I roll off from on top of you, and see you staring into space, sweat trickling down your brow, your pouty mouth slightly open.

Shut up. Stop talking to those bureaucratic blowholes. There are so many better things you could be doing with that beautiful mouth. Like, for instance, me. What I wouldn't give to get rid of the rest of these guys and have those fuckable lips wrapped around my cock. You've got the act of felatio down to a science. No. No. You've got it down to an *art*. The way you run your tongue up and down me, swirl it around the tip of my head. The way your cheeks look when you suck. God, the way your hair feels between my fingers when I grab onto you. It's a beautiful thing. It's absolutely mind-boggling.

Christ, this is painful. I wanna fuck you so badly right now that it hurts. What I wouldn't give to get these people out of here right now.

Wait a minute. I'm the White House Chief of Staff.

"Hey, guys, we're done for today. I've got to discuss some things with the President in private. Lock the door on your way out."


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