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You needed to be somewhere else right now. That was largely not an option, but you could be something else instead. Putting you under was a process Magnus did not bemoan.
"Good little thing," he had cooed at you as you sat on your knees (cock tenting your underwear, the sole of his boot pressed against your erection. The pressure wasn't overtly hard—it was just solid enough for you to rut against. And you did—) "are you enjoying yourself down there?"
"Shut up," slipped unsteadily from your lips. Your voice trembled almost as much as the rest of you (while you shamelessly ground your clothed cock against his boot.) The response to your less than respectful reply, however, was him increasing the pressure—sudden and hard. You saw stars; some sort of sum overflow error of the brain turned pain that wanted to steal your vision into the oddest and sweetest kind of pleasure.
A little drool was collecting in your mouth, but it had yet to spill over and truly make you look stupefied. No, but your arms did find their way around his leg. His throne was so much more comfortable than the floor your knees were planted against, but the dull pain of it all was more background fuzziness for you. Everything was fuzziness, actually.
Magnus drew back enough that you could control the friction better again. Eyes as cold as the metal he drew at his beck and call simply observed as you took to shamelessly humping the sole of his boot. Your arms held his leg in a vice grip, like you were afraid the momentary dissent would rob you of the experience and relief you were chasing. It was relief, wasn't it? An orgasm was always part of putting you under. You couldn't get to that floaty space while your body was screaming for it.
When the tenuous idea of rhythm your rutting had started to fall apart, Magnus came to lean over you some. His warm hand was on your hips now, guiding the pace. "Like this," came his firm instruction (voice weathered by age and power.) "Have a little control, darling."
"Daddy," you keened.
There we are.
He hushed you, his free hand petting you as if you were a prized pet (the sort of thing you pay at least half of a mortgage to even have the privilege to own.) "It's alright, darling. Daddy will let you come—" and he said it with the sort of pride that your quickly addling brain could interpret as properly paternal. Yes, you thought, daddy has me. Daddy is good to me, daddy wouldn't lie to me.
"That's a good boy," he soothed. Magnus did not bother asking if you felt you deserved to orgasm or what not—you weren't in the headspace for a question that might get interpreted as impeding the process. Instead, he just kept cooing down at you.
It wasn't long for you though—not at all. Suddenly, your grip went tighter than steel. "Daddy," you tried, hips falling off rhythm again (despite all attempts to prevent that very thing.) Magnus did not stop you this time—he just hushed you again. Soothing, he pet you more as you rocked unsteady and even against his sole, soiling your underwear in the process.
Slack. That was the only was he could describe it, besides maybe relaxed. All at once as the high hit and ran, you went slack. The only thing actually holding you up was the fact his leg had not budged an inch. Magnus manhandled your hips slightly to free his boot without pressing against your over sensitive cock, and then you were just limp against him (only so technically on your knees.) Once you'd caught your breath, it slowed right down. Tilting his head slightly to see, Magnus found your glazed over eyes trained on him.
It took you a little longer than normal to realize, but you called him out when you did. "Daddy, you're staring."
"Am I?"
Slowly, you nodded in the affirmative.
"Apologies, little one." He scooped you up like you didn't weigh more than a feather pillow. Your place in his lap was special and cherished, because it was yours, and it let you be so close to him.
You pressed your face against him, breathing in the smell. Cologne, sweat, and something else. Something like the smell before a thunderstorm. If you had more of a brain right now, you'd wonder if he'd been in the sky recently.
Gentle ministrations—he rubbed circles into your back like you were made of the softest glass. What an oxymoron. Glass is not soft. What's wrong with you? Nothing at all, he would have said. Perhaps it is for the best you cannot properly think of such things right now. "That's my baby," came in a rumble you swore you felt in his chest. "You were so worked up."
He was right, you remembered. You were horrible. You don't really remember why at the moment (more accurately, your brain had put beautiful, shiny new walls between now and why I was so upset. You do not mind them. Not thinking, you are finding, is so much easier. Whatever it is, daddy will take care of it.)
You're not really looking at his face with yours stuffed in his pectorals; you do not see the softening expression. Sharp edges go soft. Magnus smiles, even if it is with a barely perceptible curl of his lips. It's different enough that you would notice if you looked up, but you don't. You don't have to. Magnus has not asked you to look at him. He has taken instead to lovingly enjoying the way you take loose fistfuls of his cape in one hand, breathing him in and relaxing in a way you couldn't earlier.
That was fine. Magnus knew what you needed. He could not stop the world, but he could let you be like this again. No matter how many years put you over the legal ages for this or that (for viewing porn, for drinking alcohol, for making all kinds of decisions—) you were so small.
In many ways, you would never stop feeling so small.
"That's alright," he tried. "Daddy's here now."
In even more ways, you felt so incredibly small right now. There was no undoing what was done to you. You would always be small in some way.
"Daddy will make it better."
And like this, you believed him.