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Awaiting Orders

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It hadn’t always been like this. Miles walked back into the command center, to see Bass leaning casually against the wide oakwood desk (an excellent salvage for a variety of reasons), his back towards him, his hips jutting out with a quasi-swagger that Bass had only recently learned to adopt.

“I have the updated maps,” Miles finally announced his presence, forcing his eyes away from Bass’ finally tailored ass-curves.

“Put them over there,” Bass motioned vaguely towards the corner, where old books and a couple of unloaded handguns casually co-mingled, without turning to face him.

There was a time, Miles thought, when Bass couldn’t get enough of the two of them together. Where each stolen moment of privacy resulted in him panting like a dog begging for a treat, pulling Miles on top of his tightly coiled and desperately willing body.

“Yes, Sir,” Miles replied with a tinge of playfulness, as he deposited the maps where he had been ordered. “Anything else I can do for you, Sir?”

That got his attention and Miles suppressed a smirk, his face assuming the calm expression of a soldier awaiting orders.

Bass was eyeing him with the cool appraising eye of a cavalry man picking out his horse. “General Matheson,” Bass began slyly, “Have you already imposed world order and therefore find yourself with nothing better to do?” The way Bass held his body still spoke of that swagger that Miles had observed earlier. It wasn’t that Miles hadn’t been cognizant of the subtle changes that Sebastian Monroe had undergone to turn himself into President Monroe, Father of the Republic, in fact, at least some of those changes were appropriated at his own suggestion. But only now was Miles vaguely becoming aware that newer Bass, this newly minted President Monroe, aroused and terrified him at the same time. A protean fire burned in Bass’ eyes, and Miles swallowed a lump and realized that he had been holding his breath.

“I’m merely awaiting orders,” Miles finally managed.

“Since when?” Bass cocked his head to the side.

Since it seems like a really hot idea as of two seconds ago, Miles thought, but was unable to parlay this thought into words. So he just stared at Bass who seemed to glide towards him, those bright blue eyes studying him, as if he was one of those damn maps he had just acquired.

“And what if I order you to do something you don’t like?” Bass was suddenly a span of a breath away from him and Miles felt a very familiar stirring in his loins.

“I can’t think of anything you could ask me to do that I wouldn’t like,” he finally responded. If they had still been children, and had been playing a familiar fortune cookie game, he would have added “In bed” and they both would have laughed. But that was the old Bass, and the man in front of him was... unpredictable, Miles realized.

“You are very devoted to our cause, aren’t you.... General Matheson?” His tone was playful, but his lips curved into a crooked smile which Miles thought was perhaps even a little cruel. It turned him on.

“Sir, yes, Sir,” Miles replied, wondering where this little game was going, hoping again that it was going where he would logically like it to go - to bed.

“Prove it!” Bass said, a little sharply, his hand suddenly on the back of Miles’ neck, possessively, yet tentatively.

“Bass...” Miles whispered, uncertainly.

“Assume the position, soldier,” Bass schooled his face into his best imitation of a drill sergeant and pointed towards the large desk. Miles gave him a quizzical look. Bass emitted a small chuckle and walked back towards the desk, patting the hard wooden surface with the palm of his hand. “Come,” he ordered, and Miles moved towards him at the prompting of his own unruly cock which twitched in his slacks again, like some compass pointing always North towards Sebastian Monroe. “Palms down. Here.” Bass pointed at the desk again and Miles leaned forward, both his palms flatly against the cool surface of the wood. “Good,” Bass moved behind him, his voice caressing Miles’ earlobe softly. “Now you can prove your loyalty to me, Miles.”

“I shouldn’t need to prove anything to you, Bass,” Miles finally managed, momentarily forcing his mind out of the proverbial gutter.

“You will address me as ‘Sir’ or ‘General Monroe’ and only when I ask you a direct question. Now...” Miles felt lips trail softly down his neck, causing his body to shiver with pleasure. “Where was I?” Bass slowly moved his hands down Miles’ flanks, his fingers teasing and barely grazing against his uniform. “Ah yes. Pants off, soldier!”

“Permission to use my hands, Sir?” It was ridiculous to be asking, but also ridiculously hot at the same time and Miles grinned and bit his lower lip.

“Permission granted.”

Miles began to quickly undo the buckle around his slacks, his hands trembling with anticipation of the unknown progression of this little game.

“Hand me the belt,” Bass commanded and Miles raised an eyebrow towards this. This was becoming more and more interesting. Miles did as he was told, finally stepping out of his slacks, leaving them on the floor. “Fuck, Miles...” That was Bass’ reaction to realizing that Miles was already commando underneath his uniform. This momentary break of character reassured Miles that perhaps the rules of this game were more familiar to him than he had previously thought.

Suddenly, he had been pressed into the desk again, Bass’ mouth worrying the flesh on the back of Miles’ neck with small nibbles. “You know, soldier,” Bass mumbled as his hands pressed Miles’ own hands back flat down onto the desk, “This is highly against regulations,” his voice dropped a little lower into Miles’ ear, “Even if it is fabulously dirty.”

“Yes, Sir,” Miles mumbled, his arousal mounting despite his efforts to get a grip, both mentally and physically upon the table.

“I’m going to have to punish you, you know?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Bass still had all his clothes on, but Miles could feel his hardness pressing up against his exposed behind, the harsh wool of Monroe’s uniform making him feel even more naked than he already was. He felt the other man’s hands on his hips, not moving, just holding. Bass was, indeed, quietly studying the exposed mounds of flesh before him. Whether he was aware of the fact that he was slowly interspersing between biting and licking his own lip, was impossible to say.

“Spread ‘em, soldier,” Monroe finally ordered, removing his hands and taking a step back from Miles and his gloriously exposed ass.

Miles obeyed, with a sharp intake of breath, which told Bass as much about his lover’s growing excitement as the visual evidence of the same. Miles spread his legs about shoulder width apart, pressing against the desk so that his already engorged cock didn’t keep slapping up against it as he stood there, exposed and flushed with arousal in front of Monroe. He wanted Bass to come back, to feel his fingers pressing into his hip bones, as they were moments earlier, he wanted...

“Ah!” The whistling and snapping of his own belt against his exposed flesh surprised Miles more than the actual sting of the leather against his skin. A warm sensation suddenly spread from where the belt had landed, sneaking up Miles’ spine. He felt Bass’ fingers curl at the base of his skull, gripping him by the hair.

“Now, be a good boy for me, Miles,” he whispered, his other, belt-wielding hand, gently stroking against Miles’ thigh.

“Sir, yes, Sir,” Miles gasped, his cock becoming unbelievably harder than it already had been. “Please,” he moaned, not entirely sure of what he was begging for, only more of it.

“I’ll make that ass nice and rosy for me, soldier,” Monroe whispered again, teeth playing mercilessly with Miles’ earlobe, “And then... when I’m good and done punishing you for breaking uniform regulations,” Miles could hear Bass chuckle at that and he tried to move back against him, craving more contact, but Bass stood just out of reach, “When I’m done punishing you... I’m gonna fuck you long and hard. Is that what you want, soldier?”

“Oh god, yes!” Miles was turned out beyond all measure of reason.

“Oh god, yes, what?”

“Oh god, yes, SIR!”

“That’s better,” and Bass punctuated this praise with another snap of the belt against the skin of Miles’ spread inner thigh, causing Miles to moan. “I didn’t think you’d be such a glutton for punishment,” the laughter in Bass’ voice was just underneath the gruff surface. Another few slaps of the belt, coming in quick succession, were indeed making Miles feel like he was becoming “nice and rosy,” as Bass had put it.

“Bass... please...”

Another whack across his left flank was the only response.

“Please, Sir, I need you to fuck me,” Miles begged and bit down on his lower lip hard, casting a desperate look at his own cock, bobbing up helplessly against the desk, leaking despite his better judgement.

“You present yourself so beautifully, Miles,” Bass’ voice reached him, very close, but yet impossibly far, followed by another blow across his ass. It felt... so good, Miles could not exactly understand it, because Bass wasn’t exactly going easy on him, nor was he actually trying to hurt him, as evidenced by the fact that he was careful not to use the buckle, and not to hit him too frequently across the same spot. It was a glorious kind of a release, as if Miles really had been craving for someone to punish him. The promise of being fucked into the desk in the immediate future, as unorthodox as that thought would have been a few hours earlier, was at this moment not to be discounted. Miles heard himself moaning in a desperate and wanton way. “You’re such a beautiful treat, all spread out and raw and waiting for my cock.”

“Bass, for fuck’s sakes!” Miles didn’t think he could last like this. In fact, he might come right there, without Bass even touching him.

“Yes, General Matheson?” It was inconceivable that Bass could be any less turned on that Miles was, and yet, the little bastard seemed infinitely more in control.

“Sir, please fuck me now, sir!” Miles snapped out and received a final, punishing blow across his right flank. “God!”

Suddenly, Bass was right behind him, his arms wrapped across Miles’ chest, hands roaming, palming underneath the shirt, at his flushed and desperately sensitized skin.

“I’ve never seen you so ready for me,” Bass whispered. “So desperate. So perfect, Miles.”

“Please,” he begged again, trying to turn his face to catch Bass’ lips with his own, but his lover remained stubbornly just out of reach.

“Hold your horses, General, you’ll hurt yourself.” Miles could actually feel Bass laughing softly into the skin at the nape of his neck. “And that’s my job, isn’t it, soldier?”

“Yes, Sir,” Miles barely managed to squeeze between his teeth as Bass pushed something into his hand. “Gun oil?”

“Get yourself ready for me,” Monroe ordered, stepping back again.

“Are we seriously out of the good stuff? God, Bass, this really is the fucking Apocalypse.” This time Bass slapped his ass with his own bare hand.

“Get to work, General.” In all the various ways that they have been in these naked situations before, Bass could not remember anything as glorious as Miles Matheson, leaning across his desk, with belt-crimsoned ass high up in the air, fingering himself with gun oil like some proverbial bitch in heat, begging to get fucked.

“I’m ready,” Miles finally said, his fingers sliding out of his ass with a delicious pop, driving Bass just to the brink of his self-control. “Sir,” Miles added, and jutted his magnificent ass out further. Bass momentarily wanted to bury his face in it, except that he had teased them both long enough, and there were more pressing matters at hand. Speaking of which...

He slapped Miles’s hand away as it tried to sneak towards his engorged and leaking cock.

“That’s mine, soldier.”

“Please,” Miles was beyond begging. He watched as little droplets of his own sweat trickled off his forehead and onto the polished oakwood.

“Patience,” Bass hissed into his ear, and at last, finally, finally slid home, into the tight heat of Miles’ trembling body. “Oh God, yes! Oh fuck, Miles!” It was worth it: the warm, reddened flesh of Miles’ ass-globes felt firm yet supple under Monroe’s hands as he thrust home.

“Please, Bass... I need to come.” Miles shuddered. The feel of Monroe’s cock sliding smoothly, like a piston, in and out of him, the sound of Monroe’s balls slapping against his own raw ass, was all-engrossing and stupendous, but his cock still bobbed neglected against the desk underneath him, begging for friction.

“And you will, just... ah! Without touching yourself...”

Miles emitted a little squeal of protest, not really sure he could do that, no matter how amazing Bass’ cock felt slamming up against his prostate at the moment.

“You will come,” Bass panted as he drove home, over and over again, “When I order you to come.” Oh, this was too much, Miles thought, and then he felt his belt again, this time wrapping around his throat, not tight enough to choke him out completely, but definitely tight enough to make him feel like kind of a wild stallion, whom Bass was breaking for his own riding pleasure. Miles could feel his thighs trembling, both from the strain of having been kept akimbo for so long, and the sheer power of Bass and his rhythmic thrusts. “Fuck, Miles, I’m gonna come in you so much, you’re gonna have my come dripping down your thighs for hours afterwards,” Bass whispered in his ear, and Miles thought that, indeed, he probably could very well come like this. Just like this. And then he could feel his lover beginning to deliver on his threat, the belt being pulled more tightly as Bass unloaded inside him, with a guttural cry that sounded almost as desperate as Miles felt. “Now! Come now!” And Miles did.

He must have blacked out, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the belt around his neck or just from the sheer ridiculousness of the power of the orgasm that ripped through his body when Bass ordered his release. Nevertheless, when Miles opened his eyes again, he was lying on the floor, his legs entwined with Bass’ own long, naked limbs. Bass had put his head on Miles’ chest, and judging by his even breathing, he might as well have been asleep.

“Welcome back, General Matheson,” Bass mumbled into Miles’ rumpled shirt.

“Thank you, Sir,” Miles whispered, his mind not quite catching up to his body. He felt like he was still floating.

“Oh no,” this time, Miles could tell Bass was smiling, because they were nose to nose at last, “It is definitely I who should be thanking you.” Bass sealed his lips to Miles’, gently that time, with nothing of the feral game that had been played out mere moments earlier. “Thank you, soldier, for your service.”