M/M Romance Group “Love is Always Write”
Event Photo Description: Sexy Marine sitting on the floor, shirtless with just fatigue pants, another sexy Marine leaning down with his hand resting on the other Marine's lower stomach. Matching tattoos on their shoulders and upper arms. Story Letter: Dear Author, He's been in my life for two decades. Don't Ask Don't Tell ended too late for us as we were months from retirement. We spent so much of our lives in the closet, hiding our love that I worry if we can hold it together when we're out. I'm scared of losing him. For me, he's the hottest thing I've ever seen still and I know he could get guys half my age without trying hard. Why would he stick with me now? But he always knows...he knows when I need him to center me - to remind me of what we have. We're in it together to the end. If an author selects this...I LOVE BDSM. Please, please... Edited to clarify: I see the man facing forward as a sub and the other man as his dom. They've had stolen moments over the years but never the time and privacy to truly explore their D/s needs at the level they have desired. Now they do since they have retired. I enjoy a little angst (no cheating) but definitely want a HEA. Moderate BDSM would work great. Author, up to you if you take this mind. Ultimately, author, if you pick this one I'll be pleased no matter what you do to give my guys a story! Sincerely, Virginia Story Info: genre: contemporary tags: BDSM, Sexy Marines, DODT, flogging, bondage, dirty talk, misunderstanding words: 9,286 SJD Peterson Beyond Duty © 2012, SJD Peterson sjdpeterson@gmail.com ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Thank you for downloading this free ebook. This book may be reproduced, copied, and distributed solely for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are fictionalized. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. BEYOND DUTY S.J.D. Peterson The short six-block walk from home to my favorite diner down on Main Street was one that I normally enjoyed. Riverview is full of southern small-town charm that is rich in history, and for the most part, the attitude among the residents is relaxed and easygoing. I’d bought the house not long after being promoted to Gunnery Sergeant, knowing that when I retired, I’d be staying. Sure, I’d have much rather owned one the grander homes closer to the main strip—I’ve always had a thing for historical homes, but I never could figure out how to get rich in the Marine Corps. Besides, my house is actually perfect for me. It’s tucked back off the street with a large private garden I can view from every room in the place. I like the gardens but it’s the privacy I like even more. The fact that my best friend Mac fell in love with it made my decision easy. Like I said, normally I enjoy the short walk, but this particular morning I had woken up in a shitty mood. I’d been having a lot of those mornings over the previous couple of months: my gut all knotted up, head full of static noise, and my whole body tense. I don’t mean just tense, but holy fuck tense to the point that I was waking up with back spasms that had me cussing and groaning in the middle of the night. And didn’t those oh so fun, twisting in agony nightly events make my new, unwanted, best friend insomnia even more irritating. It was in this irritable mindset, made all the worse because I couldn’t figure out what the fuck my problem was, that I grabbed a newspaper and stomped off to the Bonnie Mill Diner. The Bonnie Mill was some fancy-ass private home before the turn of the century. From the outside, it’s a huge Victorian painted lady with a wraparound porch. The typical ladies in the parlor, men in the… manlier rooms kind of house. I can imagine cute little chambermaids scurrying around with lace doilies on their heads yelling, “Yes mum, no mum, right away mum.” Nowadays it features apartments on the upper floors and a kick ass place to eat Saturday morning breakfast on the main floor. It’s not that I can’t cook my own breakfast. I’ve been a bachelor since I was eighteen years of age. It was either learn to cook or suffer the canteen seven days a week. It just seems pointless to make a big breakfast for a party of one. Besides, the food at the diner is great, the company enjoyable, and it’s routine. I like routine. Stepping through the door, a lively chorus of “Gunny” from about ten familiar faces fills the air to mingle with the smells of fresh baked pastries, bacon, and freshly brewed coffee. “Morning.” I returned their greeting and waved. A little of my ire subsided and a warm smile crossed my face at the early morning welcome, reminding me of that old sitcom Cheers. Everyone is pretty much regulars, only a couple of the faces unrecognizable. It’s a place where everybody knows your name, although instead of a big wooden bar, the main focus is a soda fountain-style counter. And rather than being a really cool Boston pub, the Bonnie Mill is a diner with the original Formica tables and red vinyl chairs set in place back in the 1950s. So, I guess there really aren’t that many similarities between the Bonnie Mill and Cheers, but the greeting is the same. The only variation is from Bill Klein who yells out, “Gunny Gunnery,” while he laughs boisterously and slaps the counter with a loud bang. Not sure what Bill’s major malfunction is, but from the moment the guy found out my nickname was Gunny, short for Gunther and that I’m a Gunnery Sergeant the old man has thought it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. I nod in Bill’s direction and take a seat at the opposite end of the counter as far away from the strange man as I can get. There is just something creepy about a guy who laughs at the same joke nearly every week for a year. “Mornin’ Gunny, what ya in the mood for,” Carrie Anne asks, setting down a glass of water, turning over a mug and pouring a cup of coffee. Carrie Anne is another thing that’s routine at the diner, more accurately, a weekly annoyance. She waits on me every Saturday morning, claiming if she has to make sweets all week she is entitled to the man candy—that would be me—on the weekend. And, she is entitled to whatever she wants at the Bonnie Mill. Carrie is a twenty-eight year old, insane bleach blonde with a big mouth and even bigger… um… assets. She’s married to Carl, the owner of the place, who just so happens to be butt-ass ugly and thirty-something years her senior. Sure she married for love, I asked her once. Yeah, I didn’t believe her either. “Whatcha bake me fresh this morning, darling?” Carrie Anne leans in, her assets practically spilling from her two-sizes too small white blouse, and licks her brightly red-painted lips before murmuring seductively, “Hot, cherry pie.” After a year of practice, the greasy-looking lips inches from my face and the sickly sweet perfume she wears don’t make my stomach roll and I no longer have to hide the gag behind a coffee cup. It’s not that there is anything wrong with sweet perfume; I like it just fine, just not a complete bottle at a time. I even like painted lips—again in moderation. I dated a drag queen once, hot as hell. The things he could do with those pouty and glossy lips… Well, let’s just say, Carrie Anne is so not sexy. But the woman is a fan-fucking-tastic baker, so I put up with her batting her fake lashes and groping my ass while she walks me to the register. I order my normal farmer’s breakfast—three eggs, bacon, ham, sausage, hash browns, and an extra side of toast—with a slice of cherry pie and shake my head as Carrie swings her hips exaggeratedly while she swishes and sways her way to the kitchen. I can’t help but wonder as she walks away, trying to be all sexy, what she would say if she knew I was gay and none of her shenanigans did a damn thing for me. Not that I have plans to tell her anytime soon, but sometimes I think it would almost be worth the look on her face. Talk about priceless. After taking a sip of coffee, I open the newspaper; the headline causes my eyes to nearly bug out of my head and the breath to whoosh out of my lungs noisily. BREAKING NEWS: Obama, Pentagon certify ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ repeal I wrap both of my hands around the mug and bring it to my lips, sipping at the steaming brew to cover up the shocked look on my face while I continued to read the article. “Today, we have taken the final major step toward ending the discriminatory ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ law that undermines our military readiness and violates American principles of fairness and equality,” Obama said in a statement. “In accordance with the legislation that I signed into law last December, I have certified and notified Congress that the requirements for repeal have been met. ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ will end, once and for all, in 60 days—on September 20, 2011.” Christ, there had been rumors, but just like in civilian life, rumors run rampant among the troops and more often than not are complete bullshit. Being the government, the bullshit rule is probably even more accurate. “Fuck me,” I grumble around the mug. Twenty-two years I’ve been hiding a big part of myself and the day before retirement, DADT is to be repealed? Are you fucking kidding me? “Goddamn shame,” John complains to my right. John Wilson is about a million years old, still believes women belong barefoot, pregnant, and their place is in the kitchen. Still pays homage to the ancient belief that women should be seen, not heard. Most days John is laughable at best. It’s kind of fun to tease the ol’ bastard. It doesn’t take much to get him all flustered and steaming, and I admit to finding a perverse pleasure in seeing if I can cause the steam to shoot out of the man’s ears before breakfast is even over. For the most part the ribbing is good-natured and I know he’s a dumbass so I don’t take him seriously. In that moment however, with shock causing my heart to hammer in my chest and feeling a little off-kilter while my brain tries to figure out if the article is fact or a joke, I’m in no mood for John’s antics. Looking up from the paper, I turn and glare at John. “You got a problem with gays in the military, John?” “Damn straight I do,” he spat, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up on his red, bulbous nose. “This country don’t need no damn queers fighting for it. A bunch of Nancies running around slapping the enemy? Where is the honor in that? Next they’ll be allowing pedophiles and rapists to run our school systems.” Now for twenty-two years I’ve been known as Gunther Duchene, United States Marine. It’s the side of myself I present to the world around me. It’s not a lie; I am a Marine at the very core of my being. But from the age of ten I’ve known two things for a fact. Number one: I would grow up and become a Marine, and number two: I’m gay. The two things mix like oil and water so I kept my private side secret. I know what you’re thinking, what a coward. Well fuck that. I’m not a coward, I’m realistic. I had to sacrifice one thing for the other and I don’t regret a day of my life. Unlike some people, I don’t need nor did I ever want to be one-half of a pair. I didn’t have dreams of meeting Mr. Right, settling down in the ’burbs, and living happily ever after. My vision of a perfect life is combat, technical maneuvers, strategic planning, building a powerful body, and when the opportunity presented, a hot guy to fuck or suck my dick to satisfy my baser desires. I had no wish to be loud, proud, and out. Never felt it my responsibility to be a representative, role model, or any other type of influence for the gay youth. Being a damn good Marine and damn good man defines me, not who my bed partner is. Spending over half my life around other soldiers, I have heard every joke and disgusting slur slung at gays. I don’t take it personally. They talk the same smack about commanding officers, men, women, straight, gay, bi, black, white, young, and old, it don’t matter, they will eventually get around to disrespecting everyone. Hey, at least they are equal opportunity dumbasses. I’d wager a good number of them slinging some of the nastier remarks about gays would have willingly dropped their fatigues and presented their asses to me. However, this morning, John’s statement had me clenching my hands tightly around my mug and my body literally shaking with anger. How the mug didn’t shatter under the pressure, I have no clue. What I really wanted was to wrap my hands around John’s thick, judgmental head and squeeze until bones shattered. I shut my eyes and counted to ten—it didn’t work—then twenty, and still the rage swirled around inside me like this thick, black sludge I could practically taste in the back of my throat. Somehow, I managed to get control of my body, mainly my hands, and I eased my grip on the coffee cup and set it aside. “You never served in the military, did you, John?” I hissed. “No, I had an—” “Yeah I know, an injury,” I interrupted. “I’ve heard the story.” With calm I didn’t feel, I folded the newspaper and tucked it under my arm and pulled a wad of bills from my jeans pocket. “Here’s the thing, John. I’m having a hard time swallowing your statement this morning.” I slammed the bills on the counter with a thunderous slap; every head in the diner turned in our direction. Theatrical, hell yeah, but I got John’s attention. “Don’t seem to me a drunken coward who dodged the draft claiming he wasn’t physically able to defend this country against the enemy, but physically fit enough to beat on his wife, rightly gets a say in who can and can not defend this great country of ours.” I didn’t even wait for a response. A man can only control his rage for so long. Without a word to anyone else, I walked out of the Bonnie Mill to save John Wilson’s fool life. Pretty big of this queer, wouldn’t you say, considering the son of a bitch didn’t think I should be defending his country. I don’t know if it’s because the older I get the less I can tolerate bullshit, due to the shitty mood I’d woken up in, or if I’d just reached my limit, but by the time I got back to the house I was still totally pissed off by John’s attitude. I kicked off my shoes the minute the door slammed behind me, and I threw myself down onto the couch. I snatched the remote from the coffee table and angrily clicked through the channels without seeing a damn thing, concentrating more on slowing down my panting breath. By the time I made it through the couple hundred channels the second time, my jaw began to unclench. Giving up on abusing the remote, I picked back up the newspaper I’d thrown on the cushion next to me and was calm enough to read more. Halfway through the article, my cell phone vibrated against my hip and I pulled it out, flipping it open without even glancing at the display screen. “What?” “Are you reading this shit?” Mac’s voice came though the phone line, sounding as shocked as I’d been earlier. “Yeah I’m reading it now, pretty fucking amazing, huh?” “Only twenty years too late. Do you know how much ass I have been denied because of this stupid fucking law? I was in my prime, Gunny. My prime!” Macalister Jones and I have been best friends since we first went through boot camp together; he also happens to be the only man I’ve shared my bed with for the last decade and I’m the only one who’s been granted access to his. We’ve been fucking each other pretty much since we first met, but we are honest-to-God best friends and have never been what you call a couple. “Stop your damn whining, you’ve had the best ass there is,” I remind him. “No that would be mine, that’s why I don’t allow you to tap it too often. It’s like a rare work of fine art that has to be adored and stroked lovingly, not slammed into and abused.” “Jones, my bullshit meter is already full for the day,” I laugh, feeling instantly better than I had before the phone rang. Mac is a major joker, so it’s hard to stay in a pissy mood when under his charm. He’s also a big, lovable bastard who’ll give you the shirt off his back. Just don’t piss him off. Mac is part of the elite scout snipers, which means not only is he skilled in reconnaissance but once he finds you, he can take your ass out. “You still going need a ride from the airport?” “No, Gunny. I bought a new car and had it shipped to the airport, what the fuck do you think?” “Good, then you won’t mind me hanging up on your cocky ass and—” “Gotta go. See ya at six.” The line went dead. Flipping my phone shut, I threw it on the coffee table and heaved myself up off the couch and went to make breakfast. It had been three months since I’d seen Mac, so with his gruff voice still ringing in my ears and his fine ass running through my head, all thoughts of John Wilson, DADT, and the rest of the world were pushed out in favor of all the thoughts my little head was having. Over the last few months, Mac seemed to be the only thing I could focus on for any length of time. My pissed off mood gave way to hungry and horny. **** Leaning back against the car, arms crossed over my chest, I watched Mac step out of the airport terminal. He was dressed in his fatigues, duffle over his shoulder and a big shit-eating grin on his handsome face. His hazel eyes were hidden behind his shades, but I knew they were dark with hunger and need. Three months we’d been apart, Mac off training his replacement. Three months without heat, skin, and passion, which was two months, twenty-nine days too long if you ask me. My body lit up, nerve endings tingling as he stepped closer, and just like that first night in a grungy little hotel in San Diego, California, I was instantly so fucking hard it hurt. The first night at Twenty-Nine Palms in San Diego, California, officially known as RTD or recruit training depot, while waiting for my initial gear to be issued I turned my head and met Mac’s hazel-green eyes for the first time. I doubt anyone else noticed the way our eyes lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, but I noticed and so did Mac. At twenty, I was one cocky son of a bitch. I knew who I was and where I was going, and I wasn’t going to let anyone or anything stand in the way of achieving my goals. Although I was completely selfish and goal-oriented, I still got horny. A lot. It was during our first three-day pass I found out that as cocky as I thought I was, Macalister Jones was just a wee bit cockier, and I got my cherry ass popped. Twenty-two years later he still owned my ass, only I hadn’t realized it at the time or maybe I did but just hadn’t admitted it. Years of discretion had taught us how hide our desires to the outside world. If anyone had walked by our car, they would have seen two platonic friends, one saying to the other, “How was your flight?” What they wouldn’t have noticed was the way the tip of Mac’s finger slid along my thigh as he walked by, arms swinging. They wouldn’t notice that when Mac nodded his head and said, “Good,” he looked over the top of his glasses, meeting my eyes with a predatory gaze so full of lust, my goddamn breath caught. And, unless they were standing practically on top of us, they wouldn’t hear Mac whisper in a deep, husky voice, “Get in the car before I fuck you over the hood.” But, I heard it, and while my head was screaming, "don’t you dare fucking move, let him bend your ass over!", I strolled casually to the driver’s side, slid behind the wheel, and slammed the door. To anyone who may have glanced our way, we were two friends pulling away from the terminal, the passenger throwing his head back and laughing at a shared joke. What I actually said was, “One of these days I’m going to drop trou and find out just how fucking cocky you really are.” “Two more months and I’ll do you in the middle of fucking Main Street,” Mac laughed. And didn’t that just make my chest squeeze nice and tight and cause my gut to get all fluttery. That same weird feeling had been battling with another unsettling feeling lately, one of heart palpitations and nausea, in equal measures. I didn’t have a goddamn clue what was wrong with me, and I was beginning to think I’d stayed in the Marines one term too many. There is a reason most don’t make a career out of the military, you lose your fucking mind after that many years, and I was convinced that was what my problem was. I laughed at his joke with him and then stole a glance in Mac’s direction. Then I took a double-take at his sly grin that curled that full, luscious mouth in combination with his wide, blunt fingers massaging the thick bulge in front of Mac’s fatigue pants. That sight short-circuited my brain, and the only thing I could think about was the throbbing ache in my groin and getting us the fuck to the house, pronto. “Been a long time, Gunny.” Those fingers kept stroking. I got serious about the heavy rush hour traffic, doing my damndest to ignore Mac’s deep, husky voice. Even with my best efforts, I didn’t miss the way Mac pushed the palm of his hand hard against his cock. “Christ I ache,” he groaned. “Shut up, Mac,” I hissed. “Just shut the fuck up. Not another word until we get to the house.” Mac chuckled, the sound deep and gravelly, and I felt it resonate against the pulsing veins in my shaft. I growled a low warning sound and cranked the radio. Even with the heavier than normal traffic with tourist season in full swing, we made it to the house in record time. Mac set another record by having me slammed up against the closed door face first and my pants around my thighs in seconds flat. “Fucking missed you, Gunny,” he rasped in my ear. I could only nod, my heart hammering as Mac bit and sucked at the large tendon on the side of my neck. My focus narrowed to that warm, wet mouth and sharp teeth, and I was reduced to a series of incoherent grunts and growls that meant "hurry", "Jesus", and "now!" Mac didn’t tease. The bastard could torment me for hours, fucking days even, without letting me come, teasing that left me a hairsbreadth away from a padded room. Mercifully, he never teased our first time together after a long separation, just took me hard and fast, the burn intense, with little more than spit and pre-cum to slick the way. “Oh, Christ, Mac.” He grunted and slammed into me, his hands holding my hips in a bruising grip, pumping his cock in and out of me with forceful thrusts of his hips. I splayed my fingers, trying to get as much purchase on the door as I could. My arms locked, muscles quaking as I used every bit of my strength to keep Mac from fucking me through the door. Raw, carnal power against brute force. Mac could read my body better than even I could. He increased his speed an instant before a knot started to form at the base of my spine. Before my balls could draw all the way up against my body, Mac had his fist wrapped around my cock. Two strokes with his big, calloused hand and I was howling my release, clenching my ass around his cock and forcing him into orgasm with me. We were both spent, breathing harshly, and Mac wrapped his arms around my waist, burrowing his face into my neck. My arms gave out and Mac collapsed against me, still buried deep in my ass and holding me tightly against his solid chest as we came down from our euphoric high. Yeah, it’d been a long three months of porn and hand jobs, uncertainty and crazy mood swings, but Mac, he could make me forget in an instant that we’d ever been apart. The rest of the evening was spent in bed—no, not fucking the entire time, although Mac and I have been known to endure some epic fuck-fests. After a quick shower, Mac, coming off a thirty-six hour stretch of no sleep, crashed in my arms the minute we fell into bed. I spent most of the evening stroking his head, his muscular shoulders, down his spine, unable to stop touching his warm skin. That irritating as fuck battle between the, I’m so happy, chest tightening and the panic induced palpitations was getting fiercer the longer I lay there staring at the man in my arms. It began to dawn on me, settling right into my twisting gut, that this may be the last time Mac would be here. In two short months’ time we would no longer have to hide our sexuality, so why would he want to come home to me? The heart palpitations won. He could have guys half our age falling at his feet in worship. From the neck down, Mac and I could be mirror-image twins. We’re both sixfoot, two-hundred-plus pounds. Our torsos are thick with muscle and a light pelt of dark hair adorns our chests and abs. We even have the same tattoo, mine on the left arm, his on the right, mirror images. About five years ago, we had gotten some rare downtime together and spent a month in Europe. Mac… well it doesn’t matter what Mac said about the tattoos binding us together forever. He was drunk at the time, showing off his new tattoo in a pub, forcing me to show mine and telling the entire place how much he loved his best friend, blah, blah blah. Mac’s a loud, lovable, touchy-feely kind of drunk. It didn’t mean anything. At least I didn’t think it meant anything to him at the time. Hell at the time, I wasn’t sure it meant anything to me. At least I wasn’t admitting that the chest tightening meant anything. The similarities below the neckline sure as hell don’t continue above it. Yeah we have the same buzz cut and dark stubble, but my face looks like a growly English bulldog and Mac’s face… Christ, his can only be described as statuesque. His brow is gentle with high, perfectly sculpted cheekbones, and while there is nothing refined or stuffy about Mac, his features are regal. He’s just fucking gorgeous head to toe. Lying there some time before the first rays of sunlight streamed through the bedroom window, I finally knew the reason for the shitty mood I’d been in. I was heartbroken. Heartbroken and so fucking scared. I’d never worried about where Mac was or what he was doing. I always knew he’d come home to me. After the scare with Private Carter, who threatened to out Mac ten years ago, we’ve been an exclusive… Well, not a couple but at least exclusive lovers. Now what? Now that Mac no longer had to live in fear of being dishonorably discharged, surely he wouldn’t be content to just fuck his best friend anymore. He’d want something more, wouldn’t he? Why I hadn’t thought of this sooner, planned for it, I don’t know. Denial maybe? Contentment? At forty-two, my hair was beginning to thin, my beard had taken on a silver glow, and I hadn’t been on the prowl in over ten years. The thought of hanging out in clubs, looking for random hook-ups, worrying about safe sex issues, and learning to trust made my head hurt. Would I ever meet anyone I trusted enough to let them fuck me? Would I have to take on the more dominant role with future lovers? A small, frustrated sound escaped me and Mac patted my chest and murmured, “Shh, I’m here,” still fast asleep. Christ! The man knew what I needed even in his sleep. I tightened my arms around him. How in the hell was I ever going to find anyone like Mac? Better question was: when had I fallen in love with Mac, beyond friendship? **** By morning, I wasn’t any closer to finding answers to the question wreaking havoc in my head. I slid out of bed, pulled on a pair of fatigue pants, and snuck quietly into the bathroom. After brushing my teeth and splashing some cold water on my face, I headed to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Only two things cleared my head, Mac— even though he was currently the source of my screwed-up head—and exercise. That’s why I’m so muscular - my head is fucked up a lot and Mac is gone a lot. It’s how I deal. I shoved the coffee table out of the way, dropped down on the living room floor, and started doing push-ups. Counting each one off, I concentrated on the push and pull of each muscle in my arms. Focused on the way my toes flexed under, keeping my abs clenched, and nothing more. By the time I counted off seventy-five, my breath had sped up, sweat rolled down my temples and along my spine. The burn with each contraction of muscle radiated up my arms, across my shoulders, and settled as warmth in my lower back. My head was my own once again, the burn and the fatigued muscles my only focus. At one hundred, I rolled onto my back, planted my feet on the floor, and took a deep breath before counting off sit-ups. During these moments, I was in control - control of my body, my mind, how far I pushed, and how hard I drove myself. At one hundred I slowed just enough that Mac’s face snuck into my head, so I pushed it away, redoubled my efforts, and pushed the sinew of my body past its normal limits. “One-twenty-five,” further “One-fifty.” “Hey! Why didn’t you wake me up? I’d have worked out with you.” Mac’s voice stopped me short, and I opened my eyes to see Mac standing over me dressed in nothing but a pair of matching fatigue pants with a questioning look on his gorgeous face. It was as if I hadn’t done a single rep, the peace I’d found gone as every uncertainty came back in a rush, making my head throb. In defeat, I leaned back on my hands, stretched my legs out, and tried to get my harsh, panting breath to slow down as I stared up at him. Mac straddled my right leg and went to his knees. He placed one hand on the back of my neck, forcing me to look at him, and rested the other hand on my rapidly rising and falling lower stomach. “Hey, what is it? What’s wrong?” We sat there for an immeasurable amount of time—mirrored images, like always—breathing each other in, eyes locked. I wanted so badly to ask him what he felt for me but was scared shitless of the answer. We stayed like that for a minute, neither of us saying a word. In the end, unable to ever get away with lying to Mac, knowing he would see right through it, I sighed and gave him a portion of the truth. “Couldn’t sleep, heads all wonked up.” Mac’s fingers teased against the soft hair on my stomach as he cocked his head to the side, those expressive hazel eyes searching, looking beyond my physical form and into the very core of me. I felt naked and vulnerable. My biggest fear was that he would find my new secret and bring it out before I had time to truly understand it myself. Whether Mac saw it or not, he knew what I needed. He always knew. Warm lips pressed against mine briefly, a tease of tongue swept across my bottom lip pulling a moan from me, before I was being encouraged to stand. “C’mon, Gunny. Let’s go get you out of your head and make you fly.” **** Mac and I had spent hours together converting the basement into a gym. Every implement or machine was strategically placed to allow for not only workouts, but also private feats of endurance. The sturdy hooks in the ceiling and floors were not only for punching bags. The extra-wide weight bench had multiple uses and the locked cabinet held much more than just hand weights and ointments. So much time and thought had been put into the room, it was a special place for both of us. Normally when I entered the gym with Mac promising to make me fly, I would instantly start clearing my head of all thoughts except pleasing my lover. This time was different. No matter how hard I tried, unease had settled so deeply into my head and heart I couldn’t find peace. One last time, I thought to myself as my hands tightened into fists. I closed my eyes, savoring the sensation of Mac securing the heavy cuffs around my wrists. Stripped of my clothing, I was pliant while he secured my arms over my head, allowing him to position me in any way he desired. My breathing sped only slightly in anticipation as he attached my ankle cuffs to the floor. The feeling of being naked and bound while my lover was still clothed just added to the eroticism of the moment. Every aspect of my life was about control. From the way I conduct myself in public, the way I controlled the Marines entrusted to my command, to the strength and ability of my body. It’s odd that I would give up something so ingrained in me to someone my equal in size and strength, but much less someone below me in rank. Yet that’s exactly what I craved from Mac. To be stripped of all choices, all control, to trust completely. Mac and I, after years of playing, always exploring, experimenting, had found we shared similar needs—kinks if you will. Deviant desires unknown to even myself, only brought to the surface by Mac’s natural dominance. I inhaled deeply through my mouth, savoring Mac’s spicy flavor on my tongue, his scent filling me as I held my breath. Mac stroked a fingertip down my bare spine, the tickling sensation maddening, but I held still, keeping a tight rein on my reactions. It was as if I wanted to pull his scent, his touch, his very essence deep inside me, something to savor when he was gone. I was afraid any response on my part would weaken the sensation, or worse, I’d lose part of Mac. I gasped and my eyes flew open as sharp, stinging pain radiated out from a pinch to my left nipple. Mac stood within inches of me, a scowl marring his handsome face. “Glad to see you’re aware of me. If I wanted you to control your reactions to me, I would have ordered you to be still. Do you wish to make the rules, Gunny?” Disappointment in displeasing Mac washed over me and I lowered my eyes, no longer able to meet his questioning hazel gaze. “No.” Mac’s other hand snaked out and his fingers latched on to my other nipple, the intense pain making me cry out. “Fuck!” “Yeah, fuck.” He squeezed harder. “No, what?” “No, Sir.” My head fell forward and I panted, trying to process the pain, move beyond it. “That’s better,” he praised, releasing one nipple and soothing the sting with the flat of his tongue before doing the same to the other throbbing nub. Mac cupped my chin in his hand and forced my head up. “Look at me, Gunny.” I lifted my eyes again and steeled myself for his questions. I couldn’t lie to him, but I wasn’t ready to talk about what was bothering me. To my surprise, Mac leaned in and brushed his lips softly against mine. His tongue came out, teasing, encouraging me to open to him, which I did without hesitation. As the kiss deepened, Mac moaned his approval, and I felt the vibration of it down to my toes. The kiss went on and on. A claiming and possessive kiss with tongue, lips, and teeth, and the world stopped turning. In that moment there was only Mac and me, and I let go of everything else. Mac pulled back and I instinctively followed, wanting more, needing that connection to continue, and whimpered when I was denied. “Shh, I got you. Close your eyes, Gunny.” I did as he asked. Moments later I felt something silken against my eyes as Mac tied the fabric at the back of my head. Long moments I hung there, waiting. I knew he hadn’t stepped away; I could hear his slow, even breath and feel the heat radiating from his body. I shuddered when a hand landed on my breastbone, the contact of warm skin against my chest all the more acute without my sense of sight. “Your only job is to feel,” Mac whispered. My breath caught as his palm slid slowly downward, tickling against the trail of dark hair. Chains rattled as I arched toward a ghost of a touch against my erection that stood out proudly from my body, straining toward my stomach. “And you’re not to come unless I demand it. Understood?” “Ye…” I swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir.” Mac grabbed onto my cock, my hips instinctively snapping into his hand. “So eager,” Mac chuckled. He wrapped a strap snugly around the base of my cock and snapped it into place. I swallowed a moan of protest when he released me and stepped away. “I’m going to use the deerskin flogger; any objections, say so now.” That particular flogger was my favorite. It was good quality deerskin and so soft. I knew Mac had plans for a heavy, sustained flogging and my cock twitched in response, a drop of pre-cum dampening the sensitive head in anticipation. “No objections, Sir.” Mac’s steps were measured and sure when he stepped past me. The slapping sound of the flogger, which I knew was against the cotton of his fatigues as this was part of his ritual, was loud in the otherwise quiet room. I jumped. Then something warm touched my shoulder, relaxing me immediately when I recognized familiar fingers massaging into my flesh. “Take a deep breath and relax.” “Yes, Sir.” I took a deep breath in, filling my lungs, and blew it and the tension out slowly. The first strike was against my right shoulder, immediately followed by a strike to the left. There was no pain as Mac moved the flogger in a figure-eight pattern. It was very thuddy but very little sting. I concentrated on each tiny kiss of the hide, losing myself in the sound and rhythm. A tingling sensation of warmth skittered along my nerve endings from the base of my spine to the back of my head, and as the blows continued to rain down, growing in intensity, my body swayed in an erotic dance. The sound of hide against flesh a melody as the hypnotic rhythm moved down my back and across the globes of my ass, the tempo changing only slightly as the flogger made its way down my thigh, to begin its journey upward once more. “God, you’re so beautiful like this, Gunny. So sexy,” Mac purred, his voice tight with arousal. I couldn’t speak, only moan my pleasure as I began to float, the chains binding my wrists and ankles the only thing keeping me anchored. All sense of time or place was meaningless as the flogging increased in intensity and then peaked. No thoughts, no physical awareness of my body, even the sound of hide against skin was lost. It was as if a thick blanket of warmth cradled me and I soared to that special place only Mac could send me. How long I hung there in a suspended state, my body both the music and the dance, I couldn’t swear. I only knew when the cloud around me changed, became a heavier weight, and then solid arms wrapped around me, heat against the sensitive flesh of my back. “Come back to me, Gunny.” “Mmm,” was the first sound I could pull from my dry throat. “That’s it,” Mac encouraged, his breath warm and sweet against my ear. His hands slid up my arms until our hands met and he entwined our fingers. We were skin to skin from head to toe. I had no idea when he lost his pants, but I was very much aware of his hard cock pressing against the crease of my ass. Mac kissed down my neck, stopping briefly to suck and nip. I could feel the blood being pulled to the surface, teeth scraping then wet lips soothing the spot before he continue to kiss across my jaw. I turned my head, meeting his lips, and I moaned a soft needy sound and opened my mouth wide to take Mac’s tongue. Fingers teased the hairs of my forearms, sliding downward as Mac continued to kiss me. A complete exploration of my mouth, demanding, pushing for more, and I gave back as good as I got. Loving the way Mac battled, taking control of something as simple as a kiss. Mac bit my lower lip, our stubbled jaws rasping against each other as he moved to rest his head on my shoulder. His hands moved from my arms to my chest, down my stomach and, thank fuck, wrapped around my weeping cock. “You're so hard. God I love your cock.” Mac’s large hand stroked gingerly down my erection. I needed more, more friction, more… Fuck I just needed more. My hips started to thrust of their own accord, a hiss escaping me as the abused flesh of my back slid along the sweat-dampened hairs on Mac’s chest. It felt so fucking good and I whimpered, “Please, Sir,” my voice rough and low. “Don’t you want to fuck me, Sir? God…” I swallowed hard. I sounded needy and wanton and I didn’t care. I wanted Mac in me, filling me. “Sir? Please.” Mac groaned, his slick fingers shaking when he swiped them against my crease, one sliding into me, and I knew I had won. Without another word, he pushed his cock into me, stabbing into my ass in one hard thrust. I howled from the intensity, the stretch and burn, tossing my head from side to side as the pain mingled with the pleasure in just the perfect combination. “Mine,” Mac growled, emphasizing his words with a brutal thrust of his hips. “Yes!” My hands curled into fists, rocking back as hard as I could, needing Mac deeper. Wanting him to crawl inside me, touch my very fucking soul that he was the master of. “Yes… So very much yours.” I started to tremble as the rightness of the words flowed over me. My breathing was harsh and labored, my ass, back, and lungs were burning, and still I wanted more. Mac was pure animalistic power as he plowed into me. One hand tightly wrapped around my cock, stroking me in perfect sync with his thrusts, his other hand splayed wide across my stomach. The room stank of musk and sweat, the air filled with grunts and groans. The sound increased each time Mac changed his angle, hitting that sweet, secret spot deep inside me. Each time I cried out, Mac pressed deep, his hips rolling and the short hair around his cock tickling against my crease. He pulled all the way out, my ass clenching, before the thick, flared head split me wide open again. Mac found his rhythm. My body instinctively followed his lead as he continued the mind-blowing game of thrust and retreat. I wanted so badly for it to last, the perfect connection between us to never end. But as my balls drew up tight against my body, a hard knot forming at the base of my spine, I knew it couldn’t. The rush of urgent fire speeding like a freight train to my groin had me begging. No matter how I wished otherwise, I couldn’t rein it in, couldn’t stop it. “Please… can I… Mac… I can’t…” I could barely form words, but Mac heard them, and just like always, knew exactly what I needed. He thrust as deep as he could and tugged at the ring around my cock until the snap gave away and it fluttered to the floor. “Come for me, Gunny. Give it to me, now!” I went rigid for a brief second, my head thrown back in a silent scream, teetering between pleasure and what lay beyond. One more hard thrust from Mac’s powerful hips and I rushed headlong over the edge. My body spasmed as each wave of pleasure rolled through me as I shot, screaming Mac’s name. My eyes rolled back in my head, a rush of heat filling my ass as Mac unloaded deep inside me, and I was flying again. It took a while before I finally slumped back against Mac’s chest, breathing harshly and my entire body trembling with bone-deep satisfaction. Mac kissed the side of my neck, painting kisses down my body as he released one strap from my ankle and then the other before once again giving me his full body to lean against. He crooned incoherent praises against my cheek as he removed the blindfold and hit the quick release on the restraints around my wrists. Mac pulled me tighter against him, holding most of my weight as he guided me to the sofa and curled around me. I was boneless, sated, and content to let him hold me as I basked in the afterglow. Savored Mac. **** The great thing about Mac is he doesn’t need to fill each moment with mindless chatter and noise. He let me spend the rest of the day enjoying my blissed out state with a big goofy grin on my face. We spent time washing each other in the shower, curling up together on the couch watching movies, and just enjoying being in each other’s company. However, no matter how peaceful or deep the state of calm Mac could induce in me, it never lasted forever. It couldn’t. Reality sneaks back in to fuck with the calm, and doubt is an uneasy and disheartening frame of mind to be in. In fact, it sucks! “How do you want to celebrate our retirement? Big party? Vacation?” Mac asked as we were lying in bed later that night. The first thing that came to mind was, I don’t. I didn’t want things to change, and would gladly enlist for another four years if things could just stay the same between Mac and me. And for a split second, I wished ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell’ would not be repealed. It was selfish and disgusting, but I like to think it was the panic at the thought of losing Mac that was doing the wishing and not the real me. “I don’t know,” I admitted honestly. Mac lifted his head from where he’d been resting it on my chest and met my eyes. “Hey, I know you’ve been kind of nervous about retiring, but think of it as the next adventure in our lives. It’s going to be fun.” Fun wasn’t the first word that came to my mind. I didn’t find the prospect of being middle-aged and single fun at all. I tried to keep all traces of emotion off my face, but I don’t think I succeeded. When Mac leaned up, kissed me, and said, “You’ll see.” I knew I hadn’t hidden those unsettling feelings very well at all. Mac’s eyes went wide and he got that sly grin on his face that I loved so much. The one that told me one of his outrageous ideas was being formed. “I got it. I think we should do both!” “Both?” I asked confused. “Yeah, party and vacation. It’s not just our retirement we’re celebrating but the repeal of that bullshit law.” His voice got excited, his words coming faster. “I think when we go to Lejeune for our exit ceremony we should go in full support of the repeal. Oh fuck, Gunny!” Mac hooted. “You and I walking on stage hand-in-hand. Now that’s a hell of a way to leave a lasting impression. Two, twenty-plus career Marines, decorated Marines I might add, who served honorably. I think that sends a pretty loud message to the idiots who don’t think queers should serve in the military, don’t you? C’mon, Gunny, we got to do this.” Mac’s eyes lit up. “We can then combine our vacation celebration with our honeymoon. Kill two birds with one stone.” Mac’s grin grew brilliant. “And you said I never worry about saving money.” I was being sucked right into Mac’s enthusiasm and infectious smile, but when the word honeymoon came out of his mouth, my smile fell and my heart landed in my gut with a thud. I couldn’t fucking breathe. No way had I heard him right. I wanted to ask him what he’d said, to clarify, but my throat had constricted. “Gunny, you okay?” Mac asked, concerned. I opened my mouth and closed it a couple of times, but nothing came out. “Jesus,” Mac growled and sat up in bed, straddling my hips and grabbing my face in both of his hands. “What the hell, Gunny? You have a fucking heart attack on me now and I will so kick your ass.” He stared at me with a panicked look, which was fine by me because I was panicking the fuck out. Did I dare to hope he was serious? Finally, I was able to squeeze out, “Honeymoon?” “You don’t want to marry me?” Mac sounded genuinely hurt, which just confused me all the more. My heart was still flopping around erratically but at least I was able to push through the shock and find my voice. “First of all, you didn’t ask me, and second, I am not going to marry you just to flip off the fucking Corps. It’s not even legal.” “Neither was being openly gay in the military until now. Shit’s changing, Gunny, and for the better. We might not be able to legally marry but that doesn’t mean we can’t commit our lives to each other and who knows, maybe one day…” An odd expression twisted Mac’s face, the hands on my face tightened, and he arched a brow. “Wait a minute. What the hell did you mean, ‘just to flip off the Corps’?” I grabbed his wrists, forcing him to ease up. “You can’t expect me to say we’re married just to send a message, that’s just”—that would just rip out my heart—“wrong. You can’t send a positive message with a lie. And since when are you the poster boy for gay rights?” I was getting irritated, my skin warming with anger. It wasn’t Mac’s fault. He wasn’t the one who had started to expect more from our relationship. Rationally, I knew that. Yet, even though my head knew it, my heart wasn’t playing along. It was holding on to hope. “Our marriage wouldn’t be a lie just because the government doesn’t recognize it. We would know it was real.” “Wait… what…” Oh Christ, Mac looked serious. His jaw was set in defiance, and I couldn’t find a trace of humor as I searched his hazel eyes. My head was spinning, trying to get a grasp on the direction this conversation had gone. For months, I’d been setting myself up for his leaving. “You don’t have to settle for fucking your best friend anymore, you can have anyone you want,” I said, confused as hell. Mac shifted until his legs stretched out between mine, holding his upper body up on his forearms, and his lips inches from mine. “I’ve been a fucking basket case the last few months, couldn’t figure out what the fuck was wrong with me. I mean, how many people can retire at forty-one with a damn good pension, a sweet savings account, and can finally do whatever they want, when they want? What was there to be freaking out about, right?" “Then it hit me, I don’t want things to change between us. I mean, I know why we originally stopped fucking with other guys, but it’s not like that anymore, Gunny. I’m not settling for my best friend, I’m fucking crazy in love with him.” He leaned down and brushed his lips against mine. “We never talked about being a couple. Hell, we weren’t allowed to be, but we were. Whatever description you put on what we have doesn’t matter; we were and still are a couple. I’ve always loved you. Twenty-two years I’ve loved you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you as my best friend, my boy, my lover, and my husband.” He kissed me again. “Marry me, Gunny.” It was as if a great weight was lifted from my chest. Months I’d been worrying about my future, driving myself out of my fool head crazy. He was right. We were a couple, I just hadn’t ever allowed myself to believe it or to even hope for it. I was so overcome with emotions I could barely talk. I kissed his lips and stroked his cheek. “Yes!” Mac’s smile was brilliant when he said, “I can’t wait for the Corps to hear what we’re going to be doing beyond duty.” THE END About SJD Peterson SJD Peterson, better known as Jo, hails from Michigan. Not the best place to live for someone who hates the cold and snow. When not reading or writing, Jo can be found close to the heater checking out NHL stats and watching the Red Wings kick a little butt. Can't cook, misses the clothes hamper nine out of ten tries, but is handy with power tools. Visit me at: http://www.sjdpeterson.com http://www.facebook.com/SJD.Peterson http://sjdpeterson.blogspot.com/ http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4563849.S_J_D_Peterson Contact Jo at sjdpeterson@gmail.com
Event Photo Description: Sexy Marine sitting on the floor, shirtless with just fatigue pants, another sexy Marine leaning down with his hand resting on the other Marine's lower stomach. Matching tattoos on their shoulders and upper arms. Story Letter: Dear Author, He's been in my life for two decades. Don't Ask Don't Tell ended too late for us as we were months from retirement. We spent so much of our lives in the closet, hiding our love that I worry if we can hold it together when we're out. I'm scared of losing him. For me, he's the hottest thing I've ever seen still and I know he could get guys half my age without trying hard. Why would he stick with me now? But he always knows...he knows when I need him to center me - to remind me of what we have. We're in it together to the end. If an author selects this...I LOVE BDSM. Please, please... Edited to clarify: I see the man facing forward as a sub and the other man as his dom. They've had stolen moments over the years but never the time and privacy to truly explore their D/s needs at the level they have desired. Now they do since they have retired. I enjoy a little angst (no cheating) but definitely want a HEA. Moderate BDSM would work great. Author, up to you if you take this mind. Ultimately, author, if you pick this one I'll be pleased no matter what you do to give my guys a story! Sincerely, Virginia Story Info: genre: contemporary tags: BDSM, Sexy Marines, DODT, flogging, bondage, dirty talk, misunderstanding words: 9,286 SJD Peterson Beyond Duty © 2012, SJD Peterson sjdpeterson@gmail.com ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Thank you for downloading this free ebook. This book may be reproduced, copied, and distributed solely for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are fictionalized. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. BEYOND DUTY S.J.D. Peterson The short six-block walk from home to my favorite diner down on Main Street was one that I normally enjoyed. Riverview is full of southern small-town charm that is rich in history, and for the most part, the attitude among the residents is relaxed and easygoing. I’d bought the house not long after being promoted to Gunnery Sergeant, knowing that when I retired, I’d be staying. Sure, I’d have much rather owned one the grander homes closer to the main strip—I’ve always had a thing for historical homes, but I never could figure out how to get rich in the Marine Corps. Besides, my house is actually perfect for me. It’s tucked back off the street with a large private garden I can view from every room in the place. I like the gardens but it’s the privacy I like even more. The fact that my best friend Mac fell in love with it made my decision easy. Like I said, normally I enjoy the short walk, but this particular morning I had woken up in a shitty mood. I’d been having a lot of those mornings over the previous couple of months: my gut all knotted up, head full of static noise, and my whole body tense. I don’t mean just tense, but holy fuck tense to the point that I was waking up with back spasms that had me cussing and groaning in the middle of the night. And didn’t those oh so fun, twisting in agony nightly events make my new, unwanted, best friend insomnia even more irritating. It was in this irritable mindset, made all the worse because I couldn’t figure out what the fuck my problem was, that I grabbed a newspaper and stomped off to the Bonnie Mill Diner. The Bonnie Mill was some fancy-ass private home before the turn of the century. From the outside, it’s a huge Victorian painted lady with a wraparound porch. The typical ladies in the parlor, men in the… manlier rooms kind of house. I can imagine cute little chambermaids scurrying around with lace doilies on their heads yelling, “Yes mum, no mum, right away mum.” Nowadays it features apartments on the upper floors and a kick ass place to eat Saturday morning breakfast on the main floor. It’s not that I can’t cook my own breakfast. I’ve been a bachelor since I was eighteen years of age. It was either learn to cook or suffer the canteen seven days a week. It just seems pointless to make a big breakfast for a party of one. Besides, the food at the diner is great, the company enjoyable, and it’s routine. I like routine. Stepping through the door, a lively chorus of “Gunny” from about ten familiar faces fills the air to mingle with the smells of fresh baked pastries, bacon, and freshly brewed coffee. “Morning.” I returned their greeting and waved. A little of my ire subsided and a warm smile crossed my face at the early morning welcome, reminding me of that old sitcom Cheers. Everyone is pretty much regulars, only a couple of the faces unrecognizable. It’s a place where everybody knows your name, although instead of a big wooden bar, the main focus is a soda fountain-style counter. And rather than being a really cool Boston pub, the Bonnie Mill is a diner with the original Formica tables and red vinyl chairs set in place back in the 1950s. So, I guess there really aren’t that many similarities between the Bonnie Mill and Cheers, but the greeting is the same. The only variation is from Bill Klein who yells out, “Gunny Gunnery,” while he laughs boisterously and slaps the counter with a loud bang. Not sure what Bill’s major malfunction is, but from the moment the guy found out my nickname was Gunny, short for Gunther and that I’m a Gunnery Sergeant the old man has thought it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. I nod in Bill’s direction and take a seat at the opposite end of the counter as far away from the strange man as I can get. There is just something creepy about a guy who laughs at the same joke nearly every week for a year. “Mornin’ Gunny, what ya in the mood for,” Carrie Anne asks, setting down a glass of water, turning over a mug and pouring a cup of coffee. Carrie Anne is another thing that’s routine at the diner, more accurately, a weekly annoyance. She waits on me every Saturday morning, claiming if she has to make sweets all week she is entitled to the man candy—that would be me—on the weekend. And, she is entitled to whatever she wants at the Bonnie Mill. Carrie is a twenty-eight year old, insane bleach blonde with a big mouth and even bigger… um… assets. She’s married to Carl, the owner of the place, who just so happens to be butt-ass ugly and thirty-something years her senior. Sure she married for love, I asked her once. Yeah, I didn’t believe her either. “Whatcha bake me fresh this morning, darling?” Carrie Anne leans in, her assets practically spilling from her two-sizes too small white blouse, and licks her brightly red-painted lips before murmuring seductively, “Hot, cherry pie.” After a year of practice, the greasy-looking lips inches from my face and the sickly sweet perfume she wears don’t make my stomach roll and I no longer have to hide the gag behind a coffee cup. It’s not that there is anything wrong with sweet perfume; I like it just fine, just not a complete bottle at a time. I even like painted lips—again in moderation. I dated a drag queen once, hot as hell. The things he could do with those pouty and glossy lips… Well, let’s just say, Carrie Anne is so not sexy. But the woman is a fan-fucking-tastic baker, so I put up with her batting her fake lashes and groping my ass while she walks me to the register. I order my normal farmer’s breakfast—three eggs, bacon, ham, sausage, hash browns, and an extra side of toast—with a slice of cherry pie and shake my head as Carrie swings her hips exaggeratedly while she swishes and sways her way to the kitchen. I can’t help but wonder as she walks away, trying to be all sexy, what she would say if she knew I was gay and none of her shenanigans did a damn thing for me. Not that I have plans to tell her anytime soon, but sometimes I think it would almost be worth the look on her face. Talk about priceless. After taking a sip of coffee, I open the newspaper; the headline causes my eyes to nearly bug out of my head and the breath to whoosh out of my lungs noisily. BREAKING NEWS: Obama, Pentagon certify ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ repeal I wrap both of my hands around the mug and bring it to my lips, sipping at the steaming brew to cover up the shocked look on my face while I continued to read the article. “Today, we have taken the final major step toward ending the discriminatory ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ law that undermines our military readiness and violates American principles of fairness and equality,” Obama said in a statement. “In accordance with the legislation that I signed into law last December, I have certified and notified Congress that the requirements for repeal have been met. ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ will end, once and for all, in 60 days—on September 20, 2011.” Christ, there had been rumors, but just like in civilian life, rumors run rampant among the troops and more often than not are complete bullshit. Being the government, the bullshit rule is probably even more accurate. “Fuck me,” I grumble around the mug. Twenty-two years I’ve been hiding a big part of myself and the day before retirement, DADT is to be repealed? Are you fucking kidding me? “Goddamn shame,” John complains to my right. John Wilson is about a million years old, still believes women belong barefoot, pregnant, and their place is in the kitchen. Still pays homage to the ancient belief that women should be seen, not heard. Most days John is laughable at best. It’s kind of fun to tease the ol’ bastard. It doesn’t take much to get him all flustered and steaming, and I admit to finding a perverse pleasure in seeing if I can cause the steam to shoot out of the man’s ears before breakfast is even over. For the most part the ribbing is good-natured and I know he’s a dumbass so I don’t take him seriously. In that moment however, with shock causing my heart to hammer in my chest and feeling a little off-kilter while my brain tries to figure out if the article is fact or a joke, I’m in no mood for John’s antics. Looking up from the paper, I turn and glare at John. “You got a problem with gays in the military, John?” “Damn straight I do,” he spat, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up on his red, bulbous nose. “This country don’t need no damn queers fighting for it. A bunch of Nancies running around slapping the enemy? Where is the honor in that? Next they’ll be allowing pedophiles and rapists to run our school systems.” Now for twenty-two years I’ve been known as Gunther Duchene, United States Marine. It’s the side of myself I present to the world around me. It’s not a lie; I am a Marine at the very core of my being. But from the age of ten I’ve known two things for a fact. Number one: I would grow up and become a Marine, and number two: I’m gay. The two things mix like oil and water so I kept my private side secret. I know what you’re thinking, what a coward. Well fuck that. I’m not a coward, I’m realistic. I had to sacrifice one thing for the other and I don’t regret a day of my life. Unlike some people, I don’t need nor did I ever want to be one-half of a pair. I didn’t have dreams of meeting Mr. Right, settling down in the ’burbs, and living happily ever after. My vision of a perfect life is combat, technical maneuvers, strategic planning, building a powerful body, and when the opportunity presented, a hot guy to fuck or suck my dick to satisfy my baser desires. I had no wish to be loud, proud, and out. Never felt it my responsibility to be a representative, role model, or any other type of influence for the gay youth. Being a damn good Marine and damn good man defines me, not who my bed partner is. Spending over half my life around other soldiers, I have heard every joke and disgusting slur slung at gays. I don’t take it personally. They talk the same smack about commanding officers, men, women, straight, gay, bi, black, white, young, and old, it don’t matter, they will eventually get around to disrespecting everyone. Hey, at least they are equal opportunity dumbasses. I’d wager a good number of them slinging some of the nastier remarks about gays would have willingly dropped their fatigues and presented their asses to me. However, this morning, John’s statement had me clenching my hands tightly around my mug and my body literally shaking with anger. How the mug didn’t shatter under the pressure, I have no clue. What I really wanted was to wrap my hands around John’s thick, judgmental head and squeeze until bones shattered. I shut my eyes and counted to ten—it didn’t work—then twenty, and still the rage swirled around inside me like this thick, black sludge I could practically taste in the back of my throat. Somehow, I managed to get control of my body, mainly my hands, and I eased my grip on the coffee cup and set it aside. “You never served in the military, did you, John?” I hissed. “No, I had an—” “Yeah I know, an injury,” I interrupted. “I’ve heard the story.” With calm I didn’t feel, I folded the newspaper and tucked it under my arm and pulled a wad of bills from my jeans pocket. “Here’s the thing, John. I’m having a hard time swallowing your statement this morning.” I slammed the bills on the counter with a thunderous slap; every head in the diner turned in our direction. Theatrical, hell yeah, but I got John’s attention. “Don’t seem to me a drunken coward who dodged the draft claiming he wasn’t physically able to defend this country against the enemy, but physically fit enough to beat on his wife, rightly gets a say in who can and can not defend this great country of ours.” I didn’t even wait for a response. A man can only control his rage for so long. Without a word to anyone else, I walked out of the Bonnie Mill to save John Wilson’s fool life. Pretty big of this queer, wouldn’t you say, considering the son of a bitch didn’t think I should be defending his country. I don’t know if it’s because the older I get the less I can tolerate bullshit, due to the shitty mood I’d woken up in, or if I’d just reached my limit, but by the time I got back to the house I was still totally pissed off by John’s attitude. I kicked off my shoes the minute the door slammed behind me, and I threw myself down onto the couch. I snatched the remote from the coffee table and angrily clicked through the channels without seeing a damn thing, concentrating more on slowing down my panting breath. By the time I made it through the couple hundred channels the second time, my jaw began to unclench. Giving up on abusing the remote, I picked back up the newspaper I’d thrown on the cushion next to me and was calm enough to read more. Halfway through the article, my cell phone vibrated against my hip and I pulled it out, flipping it open without even glancing at the display screen. “What?” “Are you reading this shit?” Mac’s voice came though the phone line, sounding as shocked as I’d been earlier. “Yeah I’m reading it now, pretty fucking amazing, huh?” “Only twenty years too late. Do you know how much ass I have been denied because of this stupid fucking law? I was in my prime, Gunny. My prime!” Macalister Jones and I have been best friends since we first went through boot camp together; he also happens to be the only man I’ve shared my bed with for the last decade and I’m the only one who’s been granted access to his. We’ve been fucking each other pretty much since we first met, but we are honest-to-God best friends and have never been what you call a couple. “Stop your damn whining, you’ve had the best ass there is,” I remind him. “No that would be mine, that’s why I don’t allow you to tap it too often. It’s like a rare work of fine art that has to be adored and stroked lovingly, not slammed into and abused.” “Jones, my bullshit meter is already full for the day,” I laugh, feeling instantly better than I had before the phone rang. Mac is a major joker, so it’s hard to stay in a pissy mood when under his charm. He’s also a big, lovable bastard who’ll give you the shirt off his back. Just don’t piss him off. Mac is part of the elite scout snipers, which means not only is he skilled in reconnaissance but once he finds you, he can take your ass out. “You still going need a ride from the airport?” “No, Gunny. I bought a new car and had it shipped to the airport, what the fuck do you think?” “Good, then you won’t mind me hanging up on your cocky ass and—” “Gotta go. See ya at six.” The line went dead. Flipping my phone shut, I threw it on the coffee table and heaved myself up off the couch and went to make breakfast. It had been three months since I’d seen Mac, so with his gruff voice still ringing in my ears and his fine ass running through my head, all thoughts of John Wilson, DADT, and the rest of the world were pushed out in favor of all the thoughts my little head was having. Over the last few months, Mac seemed to be the only thing I could focus on for any length of time. My pissed off mood gave way to hungry and horny. **** Leaning back against the car, arms crossed over my chest, I watched Mac step out of the airport terminal. He was dressed in his fatigues, duffle over his shoulder and a big shit-eating grin on his handsome face. His hazel eyes were hidden behind his shades, but I knew they were dark with hunger and need. Three months we’d been apart, Mac off training his replacement. Three months without heat, skin, and passion, which was two months, twenty-nine days too long if you ask me. My body lit up, nerve endings tingling as he stepped closer, and just like that first night in a grungy little hotel in San Diego, California, I was instantly so fucking hard it hurt. The first night at Twenty-Nine Palms in San Diego, California, officially known as RTD or recruit training depot, while waiting for my initial gear to be issued I turned my head and met Mac’s hazel-green eyes for the first time. I doubt anyone else noticed the way our eyes lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, but I noticed and so did Mac. At twenty, I was one cocky son of a bitch. I knew who I was and where I was going, and I wasn’t going to let anyone or anything stand in the way of achieving my goals. Although I was completely selfish and goal-oriented, I still got horny. A lot. It was during our first three-day pass I found out that as cocky as I thought I was, Macalister Jones was just a wee bit cockier, and I got my cherry ass popped. Twenty-two years later he still owned my ass, only I hadn’t realized it at the time or maybe I did but just hadn’t admitted it. Years of discretion had taught us how hide our desires to the outside world. If anyone had walked by our car, they would have seen two platonic friends, one saying to the other, “How was your flight?” What they wouldn’t have noticed was the way the tip of Mac’s finger slid along my thigh as he walked by, arms swinging. They wouldn’t notice that when Mac nodded his head and said, “Good,” he looked over the top of his glasses, meeting my eyes with a predatory gaze so full of lust, my goddamn breath caught. And, unless they were standing practically on top of us, they wouldn’t hear Mac whisper in a deep, husky voice, “Get in the car before I fuck you over the hood.” But, I heard it, and while my head was screaming, "don’t you dare fucking move, let him bend your ass over!", I strolled casually to the driver’s side, slid behind the wheel, and slammed the door. To anyone who may have glanced our way, we were two friends pulling away from the terminal, the passenger throwing his head back and laughing at a shared joke. What I actually said was, “One of these days I’m going to drop trou and find out just how fucking cocky you really are.” “Two more months and I’ll do you in the middle of fucking Main Street,” Mac laughed. And didn’t that just make my chest squeeze nice and tight and cause my gut to get all fluttery. That same weird feeling had been battling with another unsettling feeling lately, one of heart palpitations and nausea, in equal measures. I didn’t have a goddamn clue what was wrong with me, and I was beginning to think I’d stayed in the Marines one term too many. There is a reason most don’t make a career out of the military, you lose your fucking mind after that many years, and I was convinced that was what my problem was. I laughed at his joke with him and then stole a glance in Mac’s direction. Then I took a double-take at his sly grin that curled that full, luscious mouth in combination with his wide, blunt fingers massaging the thick bulge in front of Mac’s fatigue pants. That sight short-circuited my brain, and the only thing I could think about was the throbbing ache in my groin and getting us the fuck to the house, pronto. “Been a long time, Gunny.” Those fingers kept stroking. I got serious about the heavy rush hour traffic, doing my damndest to ignore Mac’s deep, husky voice. Even with my best efforts, I didn’t miss the way Mac pushed the palm of his hand hard against his cock. “Christ I ache,” he groaned. “Shut up, Mac,” I hissed. “Just shut the fuck up. Not another word until we get to the house.” Mac chuckled, the sound deep and gravelly, and I felt it resonate against the pulsing veins in my shaft. I growled a low warning sound and cranked the radio. Even with the heavier than normal traffic with tourist season in full swing, we made it to the house in record time. Mac set another record by having me slammed up against the closed door face first and my pants around my thighs in seconds flat. “Fucking missed you, Gunny,” he rasped in my ear. I could only nod, my heart hammering as Mac bit and sucked at the large tendon on the side of my neck. My focus narrowed to that warm, wet mouth and sharp teeth, and I was reduced to a series of incoherent grunts and growls that meant "hurry", "Jesus", and "now!" Mac didn’t tease. The bastard could torment me for hours, fucking days even, without letting me come, teasing that left me a hairsbreadth away from a padded room. Mercifully, he never teased our first time together after a long separation, just took me hard and fast, the burn intense, with little more than spit and pre-cum to slick the way. “Oh, Christ, Mac.” He grunted and slammed into me, his hands holding my hips in a bruising grip, pumping his cock in and out of me with forceful thrusts of his hips. I splayed my fingers, trying to get as much purchase on the door as I could. My arms locked, muscles quaking as I used every bit of my strength to keep Mac from fucking me through the door. Raw, carnal power against brute force. Mac could read my body better than even I could. He increased his speed an instant before a knot started to form at the base of my spine. Before my balls could draw all the way up against my body, Mac had his fist wrapped around my cock. Two strokes with his big, calloused hand and I was howling my release, clenching my ass around his cock and forcing him into orgasm with me. We were both spent, breathing harshly, and Mac wrapped his arms around my waist, burrowing his face into my neck. My arms gave out and Mac collapsed against me, still buried deep in my ass and holding me tightly against his solid chest as we came down from our euphoric high. Yeah, it’d been a long three months of porn and hand jobs, uncertainty and crazy mood swings, but Mac, he could make me forget in an instant that we’d ever been apart. The rest of the evening was spent in bed—no, not fucking the entire time, although Mac and I have been known to endure some epic fuck-fests. After a quick shower, Mac, coming off a thirty-six hour stretch of no sleep, crashed in my arms the minute we fell into bed. I spent most of the evening stroking his head, his muscular shoulders, down his spine, unable to stop touching his warm skin. That irritating as fuck battle between the, I’m so happy, chest tightening and the panic induced palpitations was getting fiercer the longer I lay there staring at the man in my arms. It began to dawn on me, settling right into my twisting gut, that this may be the last time Mac would be here. In two short months’ time we would no longer have to hide our sexuality, so why would he want to come home to me? The heart palpitations won. He could have guys half our age falling at his feet in worship. From the neck down, Mac and I could be mirror-image twins. We’re both sixfoot, two-hundred-plus pounds. Our torsos are thick with muscle and a light pelt of dark hair adorns our chests and abs. We even have the same tattoo, mine on the left arm, his on the right, mirror images. About five years ago, we had gotten some rare downtime together and spent a month in Europe. Mac… well it doesn’t matter what Mac said about the tattoos binding us together forever. He was drunk at the time, showing off his new tattoo in a pub, forcing me to show mine and telling the entire place how much he loved his best friend, blah, blah blah. Mac’s a loud, lovable, touchy-feely kind of drunk. It didn’t mean anything. At least I didn’t think it meant anything to him at the time. Hell at the time, I wasn’t sure it meant anything to me. At least I wasn’t admitting that the chest tightening meant anything. The similarities below the neckline sure as hell don’t continue above it. Yeah we have the same buzz cut and dark stubble, but my face looks like a growly English bulldog and Mac’s face… Christ, his can only be described as statuesque. His brow is gentle with high, perfectly sculpted cheekbones, and while there is nothing refined or stuffy about Mac, his features are regal. He’s just fucking gorgeous head to toe. Lying there some time before the first rays of sunlight streamed through the bedroom window, I finally knew the reason for the shitty mood I’d been in. I was heartbroken. Heartbroken and so fucking scared. I’d never worried about where Mac was or what he was doing. I always knew he’d come home to me. After the scare with Private Carter, who threatened to out Mac ten years ago, we’ve been an exclusive… Well, not a couple but at least exclusive lovers. Now what? Now that Mac no longer had to live in fear of being dishonorably discharged, surely he wouldn’t be content to just fuck his best friend anymore. He’d want something more, wouldn’t he? Why I hadn’t thought of this sooner, planned for it, I don’t know. Denial maybe? Contentment? At forty-two, my hair was beginning to thin, my beard had taken on a silver glow, and I hadn’t been on the prowl in over ten years. The thought of hanging out in clubs, looking for random hook-ups, worrying about safe sex issues, and learning to trust made my head hurt. Would I ever meet anyone I trusted enough to let them fuck me? Would I have to take on the more dominant role with future lovers? A small, frustrated sound escaped me and Mac patted my chest and murmured, “Shh, I’m here,” still fast asleep. Christ! The man knew what I needed even in his sleep. I tightened my arms around him. How in the hell was I ever going to find anyone like Mac? Better question was: when had I fallen in love with Mac, beyond friendship? **** By morning, I wasn’t any closer to finding answers to the question wreaking havoc in my head. I slid out of bed, pulled on a pair of fatigue pants, and snuck quietly into the bathroom. After brushing my teeth and splashing some cold water on my face, I headed to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Only two things cleared my head, Mac— even though he was currently the source of my screwed-up head—and exercise. That’s why I’m so muscular - my head is fucked up a lot and Mac is gone a lot. It’s how I deal. I shoved the coffee table out of the way, dropped down on the living room floor, and started doing push-ups. Counting each one off, I concentrated on the push and pull of each muscle in my arms. Focused on the way my toes flexed under, keeping my abs clenched, and nothing more. By the time I counted off seventy-five, my breath had sped up, sweat rolled down my temples and along my spine. The burn with each contraction of muscle radiated up my arms, across my shoulders, and settled as warmth in my lower back. My head was my own once again, the burn and the fatigued muscles my only focus. At one hundred, I rolled onto my back, planted my feet on the floor, and took a deep breath before counting off sit-ups. During these moments, I was in control - control of my body, my mind, how far I pushed, and how hard I drove myself. At one hundred I slowed just enough that Mac’s face snuck into my head, so I pushed it away, redoubled my efforts, and pushed the sinew of my body past its normal limits. “One-twenty-five,” further “One-fifty.” “Hey! Why didn’t you wake me up? I’d have worked out with you.” Mac’s voice stopped me short, and I opened my eyes to see Mac standing over me dressed in nothing but a pair of matching fatigue pants with a questioning look on his gorgeous face. It was as if I hadn’t done a single rep, the peace I’d found gone as every uncertainty came back in a rush, making my head throb. In defeat, I leaned back on my hands, stretched my legs out, and tried to get my harsh, panting breath to slow down as I stared up at him. Mac straddled my right leg and went to his knees. He placed one hand on the back of my neck, forcing me to look at him, and rested the other hand on my rapidly rising and falling lower stomach. “Hey, what is it? What’s wrong?” We sat there for an immeasurable amount of time—mirrored images, like always—breathing each other in, eyes locked. I wanted so badly to ask him what he felt for me but was scared shitless of the answer. We stayed like that for a minute, neither of us saying a word. In the end, unable to ever get away with lying to Mac, knowing he would see right through it, I sighed and gave him a portion of the truth. “Couldn’t sleep, heads all wonked up.” Mac’s fingers teased against the soft hair on my stomach as he cocked his head to the side, those expressive hazel eyes searching, looking beyond my physical form and into the very core of me. I felt naked and vulnerable. My biggest fear was that he would find my new secret and bring it out before I had time to truly understand it myself. Whether Mac saw it or not, he knew what I needed. He always knew. Warm lips pressed against mine briefly, a tease of tongue swept across my bottom lip pulling a moan from me, before I was being encouraged to stand. “C’mon, Gunny. Let’s go get you out of your head and make you fly.” **** Mac and I had spent hours together converting the basement into a gym. Every implement or machine was strategically placed to allow for not only workouts, but also private feats of endurance. The sturdy hooks in the ceiling and floors were not only for punching bags. The extra-wide weight bench had multiple uses and the locked cabinet held much more than just hand weights and ointments. So much time and thought had been put into the room, it was a special place for both of us. Normally when I entered the gym with Mac promising to make me fly, I would instantly start clearing my head of all thoughts except pleasing my lover. This time was different. No matter how hard I tried, unease had settled so deeply into my head and heart I couldn’t find peace. One last time, I thought to myself as my hands tightened into fists. I closed my eyes, savoring the sensation of Mac securing the heavy cuffs around my wrists. Stripped of my clothing, I was pliant while he secured my arms over my head, allowing him to position me in any way he desired. My breathing sped only slightly in anticipation as he attached my ankle cuffs to the floor. The feeling of being naked and bound while my lover was still clothed just added to the eroticism of the moment. Every aspect of my life was about control. From the way I conduct myself in public, the way I controlled the Marines entrusted to my command, to the strength and ability of my body. It’s odd that I would give up something so ingrained in me to someone my equal in size and strength, but much less someone below me in rank. Yet that’s exactly what I craved from Mac. To be stripped of all choices, all control, to trust completely. Mac and I, after years of playing, always exploring, experimenting, had found we shared similar needs—kinks if you will. Deviant desires unknown to even myself, only brought to the surface by Mac’s natural dominance. I inhaled deeply through my mouth, savoring Mac’s spicy flavor on my tongue, his scent filling me as I held my breath. Mac stroked a fingertip down my bare spine, the tickling sensation maddening, but I held still, keeping a tight rein on my reactions. It was as if I wanted to pull his scent, his touch, his very essence deep inside me, something to savor when he was gone. I was afraid any response on my part would weaken the sensation, or worse, I’d lose part of Mac. I gasped and my eyes flew open as sharp, stinging pain radiated out from a pinch to my left nipple. Mac stood within inches of me, a scowl marring his handsome face. “Glad to see you’re aware of me. If I wanted you to control your reactions to me, I would have ordered you to be still. Do you wish to make the rules, Gunny?” Disappointment in displeasing Mac washed over me and I lowered my eyes, no longer able to meet his questioning hazel gaze. “No.” Mac’s other hand snaked out and his fingers latched on to my other nipple, the intense pain making me cry out. “Fuck!” “Yeah, fuck.” He squeezed harder. “No, what?” “No, Sir.” My head fell forward and I panted, trying to process the pain, move beyond it. “That’s better,” he praised, releasing one nipple and soothing the sting with the flat of his tongue before doing the same to the other throbbing nub. Mac cupped my chin in his hand and forced my head up. “Look at me, Gunny.” I lifted my eyes again and steeled myself for his questions. I couldn’t lie to him, but I wasn’t ready to talk about what was bothering me. To my surprise, Mac leaned in and brushed his lips softly against mine. His tongue came out, teasing, encouraging me to open to him, which I did without hesitation. As the kiss deepened, Mac moaned his approval, and I felt the vibration of it down to my toes. The kiss went on and on. A claiming and possessive kiss with tongue, lips, and teeth, and the world stopped turning. In that moment there was only Mac and me, and I let go of everything else. Mac pulled back and I instinctively followed, wanting more, needing that connection to continue, and whimpered when I was denied. “Shh, I got you. Close your eyes, Gunny.” I did as he asked. Moments later I felt something silken against my eyes as Mac tied the fabric at the back of my head. Long moments I hung there, waiting. I knew he hadn’t stepped away; I could hear his slow, even breath and feel the heat radiating from his body. I shuddered when a hand landed on my breastbone, the contact of warm skin against my chest all the more acute without my sense of sight. “Your only job is to feel,” Mac whispered. My breath caught as his palm slid slowly downward, tickling against the trail of dark hair. Chains rattled as I arched toward a ghost of a touch against my erection that stood out proudly from my body, straining toward my stomach. “And you’re not to come unless I demand it. Understood?” “Ye…” I swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir.” Mac grabbed onto my cock, my hips instinctively snapping into his hand. “So eager,” Mac chuckled. He wrapped a strap snugly around the base of my cock and snapped it into place. I swallowed a moan of protest when he released me and stepped away. “I’m going to use the deerskin flogger; any objections, say so now.” That particular flogger was my favorite. It was good quality deerskin and so soft. I knew Mac had plans for a heavy, sustained flogging and my cock twitched in response, a drop of pre-cum dampening the sensitive head in anticipation. “No objections, Sir.” Mac’s steps were measured and sure when he stepped past me. The slapping sound of the flogger, which I knew was against the cotton of his fatigues as this was part of his ritual, was loud in the otherwise quiet room. I jumped. Then something warm touched my shoulder, relaxing me immediately when I recognized familiar fingers massaging into my flesh. “Take a deep breath and relax.” “Yes, Sir.” I took a deep breath in, filling my lungs, and blew it and the tension out slowly. The first strike was against my right shoulder, immediately followed by a strike to the left. There was no pain as Mac moved the flogger in a figure-eight pattern. It was very thuddy but very little sting. I concentrated on each tiny kiss of the hide, losing myself in the sound and rhythm. A tingling sensation of warmth skittered along my nerve endings from the base of my spine to the back of my head, and as the blows continued to rain down, growing in intensity, my body swayed in an erotic dance. The sound of hide against flesh a melody as the hypnotic rhythm moved down my back and across the globes of my ass, the tempo changing only slightly as the flogger made its way down my thigh, to begin its journey upward once more. “God, you’re so beautiful like this, Gunny. So sexy,” Mac purred, his voice tight with arousal. I couldn’t speak, only moan my pleasure as I began to float, the chains binding my wrists and ankles the only thing keeping me anchored. All sense of time or place was meaningless as the flogging increased in intensity and then peaked. No thoughts, no physical awareness of my body, even the sound of hide against skin was lost. It was as if a thick blanket of warmth cradled me and I soared to that special place only Mac could send me. How long I hung there in a suspended state, my body both the music and the dance, I couldn’t swear. I only knew when the cloud around me changed, became a heavier weight, and then solid arms wrapped around me, heat against the sensitive flesh of my back. “Come back to me, Gunny.” “Mmm,” was the first sound I could pull from my dry throat. “That’s it,” Mac encouraged, his breath warm and sweet against my ear. His hands slid up my arms until our hands met and he entwined our fingers. We were skin to skin from head to toe. I had no idea when he lost his pants, but I was very much aware of his hard cock pressing against the crease of my ass. Mac kissed down my neck, stopping briefly to suck and nip. I could feel the blood being pulled to the surface, teeth scraping then wet lips soothing the spot before he continue to kiss across my jaw. I turned my head, meeting his lips, and I moaned a soft needy sound and opened my mouth wide to take Mac’s tongue. Fingers teased the hairs of my forearms, sliding downward as Mac continued to kiss me. A complete exploration of my mouth, demanding, pushing for more, and I gave back as good as I got. Loving the way Mac battled, taking control of something as simple as a kiss. Mac bit my lower lip, our stubbled jaws rasping against each other as he moved to rest his head on my shoulder. His hands moved from my arms to my chest, down my stomach and, thank fuck, wrapped around my weeping cock. “You're so hard. God I love your cock.” Mac’s large hand stroked gingerly down my erection. I needed more, more friction, more… Fuck I just needed more. My hips started to thrust of their own accord, a hiss escaping me as the abused flesh of my back slid along the sweat-dampened hairs on Mac’s chest. It felt so fucking good and I whimpered, “Please, Sir,” my voice rough and low. “Don’t you want to fuck me, Sir? God…” I swallowed hard. I sounded needy and wanton and I didn’t care. I wanted Mac in me, filling me. “Sir? Please.” Mac groaned, his slick fingers shaking when he swiped them against my crease, one sliding into me, and I knew I had won. Without another word, he pushed his cock into me, stabbing into my ass in one hard thrust. I howled from the intensity, the stretch and burn, tossing my head from side to side as the pain mingled with the pleasure in just the perfect combination. “Mine,” Mac growled, emphasizing his words with a brutal thrust of his hips. “Yes!” My hands curled into fists, rocking back as hard as I could, needing Mac deeper. Wanting him to crawl inside me, touch my very fucking soul that he was the master of. “Yes… So very much yours.” I started to tremble as the rightness of the words flowed over me. My breathing was harsh and labored, my ass, back, and lungs were burning, and still I wanted more. Mac was pure animalistic power as he plowed into me. One hand tightly wrapped around my cock, stroking me in perfect sync with his thrusts, his other hand splayed wide across my stomach. The room stank of musk and sweat, the air filled with grunts and groans. The sound increased each time Mac changed his angle, hitting that sweet, secret spot deep inside me. Each time I cried out, Mac pressed deep, his hips rolling and the short hair around his cock tickling against my crease. He pulled all the way out, my ass clenching, before the thick, flared head split me wide open again. Mac found his rhythm. My body instinctively followed his lead as he continued the mind-blowing game of thrust and retreat. I wanted so badly for it to last, the perfect connection between us to never end. But as my balls drew up tight against my body, a hard knot forming at the base of my spine, I knew it couldn’t. The rush of urgent fire speeding like a freight train to my groin had me begging. No matter how I wished otherwise, I couldn’t rein it in, couldn’t stop it. “Please… can I… Mac… I can’t…” I could barely form words, but Mac heard them, and just like always, knew exactly what I needed. He thrust as deep as he could and tugged at the ring around my cock until the snap gave away and it fluttered to the floor. “Come for me, Gunny. Give it to me, now!” I went rigid for a brief second, my head thrown back in a silent scream, teetering between pleasure and what lay beyond. One more hard thrust from Mac’s powerful hips and I rushed headlong over the edge. My body spasmed as each wave of pleasure rolled through me as I shot, screaming Mac’s name. My eyes rolled back in my head, a rush of heat filling my ass as Mac unloaded deep inside me, and I was flying again. It took a while before I finally slumped back against Mac’s chest, breathing harshly and my entire body trembling with bone-deep satisfaction. Mac kissed the side of my neck, painting kisses down my body as he released one strap from my ankle and then the other before once again giving me his full body to lean against. He crooned incoherent praises against my cheek as he removed the blindfold and hit the quick release on the restraints around my wrists. Mac pulled me tighter against him, holding most of my weight as he guided me to the sofa and curled around me. I was boneless, sated, and content to let him hold me as I basked in the afterglow. Savored Mac. **** The great thing about Mac is he doesn’t need to fill each moment with mindless chatter and noise. He let me spend the rest of the day enjoying my blissed out state with a big goofy grin on my face. We spent time washing each other in the shower, curling up together on the couch watching movies, and just enjoying being in each other’s company. However, no matter how peaceful or deep the state of calm Mac could induce in me, it never lasted forever. It couldn’t. Reality sneaks back in to fuck with the calm, and doubt is an uneasy and disheartening frame of mind to be in. In fact, it sucks! “How do you want to celebrate our retirement? Big party? Vacation?” Mac asked as we were lying in bed later that night. The first thing that came to mind was, I don’t. I didn’t want things to change, and would gladly enlist for another four years if things could just stay the same between Mac and me. And for a split second, I wished ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell’ would not be repealed. It was selfish and disgusting, but I like to think it was the panic at the thought of losing Mac that was doing the wishing and not the real me. “I don’t know,” I admitted honestly. Mac lifted his head from where he’d been resting it on my chest and met my eyes. “Hey, I know you’ve been kind of nervous about retiring, but think of it as the next adventure in our lives. It’s going to be fun.” Fun wasn’t the first word that came to my mind. I didn’t find the prospect of being middle-aged and single fun at all. I tried to keep all traces of emotion off my face, but I don’t think I succeeded. When Mac leaned up, kissed me, and said, “You’ll see.” I knew I hadn’t hidden those unsettling feelings very well at all. Mac’s eyes went wide and he got that sly grin on his face that I loved so much. The one that told me one of his outrageous ideas was being formed. “I got it. I think we should do both!” “Both?” I asked confused. “Yeah, party and vacation. It’s not just our retirement we’re celebrating but the repeal of that bullshit law.” His voice got excited, his words coming faster. “I think when we go to Lejeune for our exit ceremony we should go in full support of the repeal. Oh fuck, Gunny!” Mac hooted. “You and I walking on stage hand-in-hand. Now that’s a hell of a way to leave a lasting impression. Two, twenty-plus career Marines, decorated Marines I might add, who served honorably. I think that sends a pretty loud message to the idiots who don’t think queers should serve in the military, don’t you? C’mon, Gunny, we got to do this.” Mac’s eyes lit up. “We can then combine our vacation celebration with our honeymoon. Kill two birds with one stone.” Mac’s grin grew brilliant. “And you said I never worry about saving money.” I was being sucked right into Mac’s enthusiasm and infectious smile, but when the word honeymoon came out of his mouth, my smile fell and my heart landed in my gut with a thud. I couldn’t fucking breathe. No way had I heard him right. I wanted to ask him what he’d said, to clarify, but my throat had constricted. “Gunny, you okay?” Mac asked, concerned. I opened my mouth and closed it a couple of times, but nothing came out. “Jesus,” Mac growled and sat up in bed, straddling my hips and grabbing my face in both of his hands. “What the hell, Gunny? You have a fucking heart attack on me now and I will so kick your ass.” He stared at me with a panicked look, which was fine by me because I was panicking the fuck out. Did I dare to hope he was serious? Finally, I was able to squeeze out, “Honeymoon?” “You don’t want to marry me?” Mac sounded genuinely hurt, which just confused me all the more. My heart was still flopping around erratically but at least I was able to push through the shock and find my voice. “First of all, you didn’t ask me, and second, I am not going to marry you just to flip off the fucking Corps. It’s not even legal.” “Neither was being openly gay in the military until now. Shit’s changing, Gunny, and for the better. We might not be able to legally marry but that doesn’t mean we can’t commit our lives to each other and who knows, maybe one day…” An odd expression twisted Mac’s face, the hands on my face tightened, and he arched a brow. “Wait a minute. What the hell did you mean, ‘just to flip off the Corps’?” I grabbed his wrists, forcing him to ease up. “You can’t expect me to say we’re married just to send a message, that’s just”—that would just rip out my heart—“wrong. You can’t send a positive message with a lie. And since when are you the poster boy for gay rights?” I was getting irritated, my skin warming with anger. It wasn’t Mac’s fault. He wasn’t the one who had started to expect more from our relationship. Rationally, I knew that. Yet, even though my head knew it, my heart wasn’t playing along. It was holding on to hope. “Our marriage wouldn’t be a lie just because the government doesn’t recognize it. We would know it was real.” “Wait… what…” Oh Christ, Mac looked serious. His jaw was set in defiance, and I couldn’t find a trace of humor as I searched his hazel eyes. My head was spinning, trying to get a grasp on the direction this conversation had gone. For months, I’d been setting myself up for his leaving. “You don’t have to settle for fucking your best friend anymore, you can have anyone you want,” I said, confused as hell. Mac shifted until his legs stretched out between mine, holding his upper body up on his forearms, and his lips inches from mine. “I’ve been a fucking basket case the last few months, couldn’t figure out what the fuck was wrong with me. I mean, how many people can retire at forty-one with a damn good pension, a sweet savings account, and can finally do whatever they want, when they want? What was there to be freaking out about, right?" “Then it hit me, I don’t want things to change between us. I mean, I know why we originally stopped fucking with other guys, but it’s not like that anymore, Gunny. I’m not settling for my best friend, I’m fucking crazy in love with him.” He leaned down and brushed his lips against mine. “We never talked about being a couple. Hell, we weren’t allowed to be, but we were. Whatever description you put on what we have doesn’t matter; we were and still are a couple. I’ve always loved you. Twenty-two years I’ve loved you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you as my best friend, my boy, my lover, and my husband.” He kissed me again. “Marry me, Gunny.” It was as if a great weight was lifted from my chest. Months I’d been worrying about my future, driving myself out of my fool head crazy. He was right. We were a couple, I just hadn’t ever allowed myself to believe it or to even hope for it. I was so overcome with emotions I could barely talk. I kissed his lips and stroked his cheek. “Yes!” Mac’s smile was brilliant when he said, “I can’t wait for the Corps to hear what we’re going to be doing beyond duty.” THE END About SJD Peterson SJD Peterson, better known as Jo, hails from Michigan. Not the best place to live for someone who hates the cold and snow. When not reading or writing, Jo can be found close to the heater checking out NHL stats and watching the Red Wings kick a little butt. Can't cook, misses the clothes hamper nine out of ten tries, but is handy with power tools. Visit me at: http://www.sjdpeterson.com http://www.facebook.com/SJD.Peterson http://sjdpeterson.blogspot.com/ http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4563849.S_J_D_Peterson Contact Jo at sjdpeterson@gmail.com
