Miles Edgeworth, Chief Prosecutor, was finally home.
Metaphorically, he was now fully resident in Los Angeles. He had taken a permanent post, and he had bought an apartment. His life was here.
More literally, he had just shut the door to his apartment behind him after a long and tiring day.
He felt a sense of calm wash over him immediately. He had been jittery all the way home, until he had made his decision: it would be one of those nights.
He locked the door, and silenced his phone. He made himself tea. He removed his work clothes and took a long, hot shower.
His skin felt sensitised already as he thought ahead, his cock stirring with interest, but he ignored it. If he’d wanted to quickly scratch an itch and pull himself off here, he could, but that wasn’t what he wanted tonight.
Finally, towelled dry and wearing his favourite robe, he filled a bottle of water from the kitchen. That done, he walked over to his desk and pulled out a nondescript key from its top drawer. It opened the door of one room in his apartment that always remained locked. He had originally intended it to be an office, but it served a different purpose now.
He opened the door, and flicked on the lights, anticipation beginning to thrum through his blood. He shut the door and locked it behind him. He released a sigh, a final bit of tension he hadn’t realised he’d been holding until he was secure in his sanctuary.
It was sparsely decorated. If anyone ever did somehow gain access to this particular room, all that it would appear to contain, at first glance, is a couch, gym equipment, and file boxes.
When one of his therapists had suggested that he spend his hard-earned money on something entirely for himself, something that would please him, he was quite sure this was not what they had in mind. It worked, however.
Miles’ exploration of his sexuality had been limited for a very, very long time. He’d pursued perfection and repressed all other distractions. It had taken a long time - and therapy - to work at repairing the damage done. These days, he felt more comfortable in his own skin, as a person, and, increasingly, as a sexual being. Having stable surroundings made him feel safe to explore this side of him.
However, he was a busy man and the idea of enduring the process of procuring sexual partners did not appeal. Nor did he have time or desire for a relationship. (There was a notable exception, granted, but he couldn’t have everything.) Therefore, he had taken matters into his own hands, so to speak, when it came to exploring his desires.
He was methodical in this as he was with his work. He had taped the floor with markers, so he could set his equipment to his liking. First, a soft mat, like those used for yoga, to kneel on. A very low sofa and a wedge that he could lean forward against and not move, no matter how hard he pressed.
Satisfied with the position of these, he stepped over to a shelf with the dark lockboxes lined neatly against it, removing one from the bottommost shelf. He opened it, and after a moment’s debate, selected a favourite from its contents: a medium-firm silicone dildo, with a series of slight ridges.
He then turned to the jewel in his collection, to be used with his choice of toy for tonight.
It had cost a pretty penny, but it had been worth it. It was an elegant and sleek machine, a premium model that set it world apart from its cheaper brethren; a ferrari amongst sex machines. Miles Edgeworth did not take half-measures with his pursuits.
More importantly, it had some extra features that he required. Most machines assumed a partner would assist with configuration; Miles had always intended it for solo use. He had it fixed to the perfect height and angle when used with his floor markers. This model came with a remote so he could control the depth and speed himself while the machine was in motion.
Having set everything to his liking, he finally slipped off his robe. He had cooled off from his shower by now, but knew that soon wouldn’t be a problem.
He opened another box, this time for the pragmatics of condoms and lubricant and wipes. He prepared the machine, and then himself. He was well-practised at opening himself up. It felt so long ago now, that he'd once been nervous to try even just his fingers.
Finally, the only thing left to do was get into position. In privacy like this, there was no shame, only anticipation in shifting to hands and knees. His upper body rested on the low couch, where he could fold his arms beneath his head, or grab onto the cushions if things got intense. A small strip of velcro conveniently held the remote near his right hand, so he had no fear of dropping it.
He lined up the blunt head of the dildo, rocking back against it for the haptic pleasure of it as it brushed against the sensitive nerve endings. He wanted to make the most of this, these rare moments where he could be an unashamed hedonist.
With some gentle push-pull and careful fingers adding more lubricant to the mix, the slippery head breached him, making him shiver. It wasn't even his biggest, but this evening he really wanted this to go on as long as he could, until all the irritations and stress of the day just melted away.
He wiped his hands, settled down, taking a few steadying breaths before thumbing the remote.
He gripped onto the sofa as the machine whirred to life, and slowly thrust into him. At its lowest setting, it rocked back and forth, a slow drag of the ridges of the toy against his sphincter, barely an inch inside.
He stayed that way for a few minutes while he adjusted to the feeling, for the machine did not moderate its pace the way a person would. Once he was satisfied he could take it, he upped the depth of the thrusts on the remote.
He groaned as the machine immediately kicked forward and filled him completely, and before he could even recover the next thrust came, strong and unrelenting.
He held on tight to the sofa arm, and let himself be taken, over and over, his body alight with the sensation. The slightest shift of his body was enough to either brush or nudge against his prostate as he needed, keeping him suspended in his pleasure for as long as he wanted.
When that was all that he wanted.
Sweat began to bead against his brow, and he was ready, his whole body shifting restlessly for more. His cock was thick and throbbing between his legs, untouched, a thin trickle of precum suspended midair. He was tempted to give himself a hand, but also knew from experience that he didn't have to.
He turned up the speed of the machine.
There was barely any time to recover between deep thrusts that shook his body, pressed him against the sofa cushions as he let his grip fall slack and the machine have its way with him.
He could feel the coiling tension of his first orgasm building, the machine fucking it out of him until he let out a thin cry and came, spattering the mat beneath him. He lowered the speed, fumblingly, but did not turn it off. Last time he had indulged himself like this, he had managed four rounds before he had stopped.
He was a little sweaty, feeling sensitive and flush with exertion. He could take more, and he would. There was nothing to stop him except the limits of his own body.
When his cock hardened again, he slowly nudged up the speed. This was where it started to become endurance, his breath turning harsh as he was suspended between pleasure and pain, until his next orgasm was wrested from him without mercy.
By the time he was on his way to a third, everything had narrowed down to the sensation, his heart pounding in his ears, the machine’s whirr a background noise as all tension fell from his body, accepting he would be wrung dry until he decided to call it to stop. He felt well-used and brilliant and decadent, his brain no longer thinking and just feeling, experiencing the full spectrum of pleasure his body could give him.
Finally, he knew he couldn’t endure any longer. His legs were too shaky, his mind too cloudy, the feel of the relentless drive of the machine now dulled. Just a little more, he told himself, almost -
His third orgasm made him merely shiver, his body too tired to even spasm in full. It was all he could do to shakingly brush his fingers over the remote and end it.
He slumped, feeling glorious, like he had run a marathon. Exhausted and triumphant.
Slowly, everything began to click back online, though he was still high on endorphins. He gathered enough of his senses to extricate himself from his beloved machine. His hands were trembling as he cleaned up enough of the mess that he could relocate to sit - carefully - on the sofa with a towel. He drank deeply from the bottle of water he'd left within arm's reach.
He floated there for a while, until the full ache of being ruthlessly fucked began to set in, decadent and pleasing in its own right. He felt primal and powerful and sated. He felt whole. He was the man he wanted to be, personally, professionally, so why not sexually? What more could he want from life?
Once he settled back into his skin he got up, wrapping his robe about him once more, and returned to reality, dealing with the aftermath of his amusements. He was soon clean and in pyjamas and ready to sleep the sleep of the well-fucked.
When he set his phone to charge he noticed he had a number of unread text messages and that they all came from a certain defense attorney. He smiled and opened them. He could read the other man’s exuberance through the string-of-conscious messages, sent one after the other, until he finally rambled to a suggestion of dinner later in the week. They had been doing this more lately. It was… nice. This was certainly one of the healthy things that his therapist had suggested that he do. See those he cared about more. Reconnect.
Maybe one day he’d be brave enough to explore these feelings, too.