Miles bit his lip on a groan and nodded. "Yes, Sir. Your wish is my every command."
? ? ?
On Saturday evening, they settled down on the couch to watch a game of the 3x3 ice hockey tournament being televised over the summer.
Despite the interesting new game format, neither of them had gotten particularly invested in the match that was airing. Miles half-watched, relaxed on the couch with Darren's feet in his lap. Feet hadn't ever been anything he'd been particularly invested in either, but he was interested in Darren. He was definitely interested in doing things for Darren, so Miles rubbed a bourbon-scented massage bar between his hands and continued his slow massage.
Even without the mishap at Mal's, he would have enjoyed being like this with Darren on a rare, quiet weekend. He liked the warmth of Darren's bare skin under his hands, and hearing his husband hum in pleasure as Miles's fingers worked into the tension of his instep with practiced pressure.
Stretched out along the couch, Darren's attention had wandered from the TV to the tablet in his hands, idly surfing the internet. It was good to see him casual and relaxed in their intimacy. Miles went through the high points of the past few weeks again. They'd had a great time at Folsom, met people, and raised so much money for an important charity. Shimizu was running smoothly, Darren's employees content, and their members happy. Darren deserved all of that and more. The moment Mal's upline had snapped was still a cold knot of tension in his memory, but hopefully time would continue to gently uncurl it. It would become something to learn from instead of something to fear.
Darren's muscles tensed beneath Miles's touch, toes curling under. Miles looked over to find his husband's attention riveted on the tablet in his hands, his lush bottom lip sucked between his teeth. Miles had spent more than enough time focused on pleasing his husband to recognize the signs of arousal.
Miles watched him, enjoying the rapt focus and appreciation that his husband had for whatever he was looking at. Then he let his fingers smooth up over Darren's ankle, under the soft knit of his athleisure pants, to caress his calf.
"Sir," he started, letting his voice soften into the throaty invitation he knew Darren liked so well. "Is there anything I can do to serve your pleasure?"
Darren grinned, easy, appreciative. And hungry. "My good pet. Yes. Yes, I think there is."
? ? ?
∞ 15 ∞
The Release of Playtime
As wonderful as it always was to relax with Darren, the suggestion of transitioning to the eroticism of formal playtime made Miles's pulse quicken.
Darren's gaze moved to his, appreciative and undeniably hungry. "Thank you for your attentions, my love," he murmured, and Miles found himself smiling, body growing warmer in anticipation.
"I'd be happy to pay you more," he offered, fingers far enough up Darren's pant leg now to stroke his inner thigh. "If you would like me to give you pleasure while you look at whatever that is?" They'd played like that before. Miles liked anything that involved giving Darren pleasure, of course, but there was an intoxicating freedom to letting himself be objectified even outside of formal playtime.
Darren gave a low hum of consideration, eyes moving over his body slowly. "I would like to play," he said, and arousal and relief both rushed through Miles at the declaration. Then, Darren handed over the tablet.
Miles finally got a glimpse of what had caught his husband's attention and felt both flattered and intrigued at once.
The man in the photos was a near-perfect specimen. He had huge, beautiful, sculpted muscles, even bigger than Miles's own. He stood in powerful poses, like a special ops soldier, which made Miles immediately think of beingdominant. Could he present such a powerful, compelling figure to a future sub?
The man's muscles were also nearly completely laid bare by his lack of clothing; only a sweat-damp tank top, tiny cotton camouflage shorts, and black tactical boots. Over all of it was the black webbing of tactical gear - shoulder harnesses, a black utility belt, and double holsters with tight black straps around thighs so muscular they looked like a single flex might break the clasp.
"Looks like the gear you got from Bound & Proud, yeah?" He lowered his voice, husky. "I'd like you to go into the bedroom and make yourself look like that for me."
Miles scrolled down past more photos and fewer clothes - the man looked even more powerful in nothing but the gear and a tiny black speedo stretched over his thick cock, chest glistening in the sun.
Miles wouldn't ever be as built as this man, especially not at his age, but he hadn't given up his gym routine yet. He could give it a go. He smiled at Darren. "Yes, Sir. With clothes or without?”
"Shorts and a tank top to start, I think," Darren decided. He sat up with languid grace, pulling Miles in for a slow, promising kiss. "Get your gear on for me, pet."
"Yes, Sir," Miles purred into his mouth, then stood, grabbing the massage bar at the last minute as he headed to the bedroom.
In the time since he'd met Darren, Miles had been able to set aside most of the guilt he felt about his bodybuilding. Even when he was still a cop, he'd worked out far more than was expected of him. It was one of the few things he'd really had control over in his life before the divorce. And after rehab, he'd doubled down, needing to substitute a new addiction for his alcoholism.
Originally, he'd thought he might have to cut back once he got his life back on track. But Darren had always spoken so favorably about his body. When their relationship became less than professional, Miles had started to understand that his words were far more than just praise and lip service. It was what had let him set aside most of his guilt over his excessive gym routines, knowing that Darren took such pleasure from his form. He was bodybuilding not just to be strong, but to serve Darren with both his strength and his looks.
The outfit was easy enough to replicate. He dug out a thin gray tank top, then considered his options. The "Bound & Proud" booth boy shorts were hot, but a pair of slightly too-small, threadbare camo boxers he should have thrown out long ago looked a bit more like the photo. His tactical boots and the utility belt went on over top.
He'd turned in his gun when he'd left the NYPD, of course, but with Darren's encouragement, he'd kept his shoulder holster purely for kink purposes. Before he pulled it on, he warmed the massage bar between his hands again and applied it liberally over his body, pulling up his tank top. Moving in front of the mirrored closet doors, he kept a critical eye on its effects until his muscles were gleaming under the softly scented oil.
He'd never looked like this on the force, of course. After the shooting - a raid gone wrong, when he'd made the wrong call under gunfire and fatally shot an undercover cop - he hadn't wanted to touch any of his tactical gear. When he'd eventually been reinstated, they'd stuck him in evidence. He had to admit that it was probably for the best; what had hurt was feeling like he wasn't worth a position where he could dedicate himself to helping people, as his father had before his own death in the line of duty.
