Maskedcop20

Paul had always been a horseman first and everything else second. The leather of his breeches was worn soft in places from years in the saddle—dark green canvas reinforced with thick black leather across the seat and the inside of the thighs, the seams straining just enough to outline the powerful muscles of his legs. Tall black knee-high boots, polished to a deep shine, rose to just below the knee, the silver buckles and short spurs catching the light with every step. He wore a fitted grey waistcoat over a beige shirt with the sleeves rolled, black leather gloves already on, and the long braided crop held loosely in one hand.

His cock was half-hard already, thick and heavy inside his breeches, but the cut of the garment and the way he carried himself kept it from showing as more than a subtle, insistent swell. He was a total top—hard, dominant, used to being obeyed—and the moment he stepped through the front door of his friend’s house, the other man knew exactly what was coming.

No greeting. No small talk. Paul simply shut the door behind him, locked it, and let the crop rest against his thigh as he looked the other man up and down.

“On your knees.”

His voice was low, rough, the same tone he used with a stubborn horse. The friend dropped without hesitation. Paul stepped closer, boots creaking softly on the wooden floor, and rested the tip of the crop under the other man’s chin, tilting his face up.

“You know the rules,” Paul said. “Mouth open. Hands behind your back. And you don’t touch the leather unless I say.”

He unzipped the front of the breeches just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the head already glistening. The scent of the breeches and warm skin filled the space between them. Paul didn’t thrust; he simply stood there, gloved hand steady on the crop, waiting for the other man to lean forward and take him.

The first wet heat of the mouth made Paul’s breath hitch. He let his head tip back for a second, eyes half-closing, then looked down again—watching those lips stretch around him, watching the other man struggle to take more of the heavy length. Paul’s free hand settled on the back of the kneeling man’s head, not forcing, just resting there with quiet ownership.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Good boy. Take it properly.”

He began to move—slow, deep strokes, the leather of his gloves creaking as he gripped the other man’s hair. The crop stayed in his other hand, occasionally tapping a warning against a shoulder or the side of a neck when the rhythm faltered. Every time the other man tried to pull back for air, Paul held him a fraction longer, letting him feel the weight, the control, the absolute certainty that Paul was in charge.

When he finally pulled free, a string of saliva connected them. Paul’s cock stood rigid, shiny, the head dark and leaking. He tucked himself back into the open breeches just enough to keep the leather framing him, then pointed the crop toward the living-room floor.

“Clothes off. Hands and knees. Present.”

The friend stripped quickly, folding his clothes neatly to the side the way Paul preferred. Once he was naked and in position, Paul walked a slow circle around him, boots heavy on the floorboards, the crop trailing lightly over bare skin—shoulders, spine, the curve of an ass. He stopped behind him and rested the braided leather across the other man’s lower back.

“You wanted this,” Paul said quietly. “You always do. The leather. The boots. The way I take what’s mine.”

He dropped to one knee just long enough to spit into his gloved palm and stroke himself once, twice, then pressed the thick head against the other man’s entrance. No more warning. He pushed in with one steady, relentless thrust until his hips met the other man’s ass, the leather of the breeches warm against bare skin.

A low groan tore from Paul’s throat. He stayed buried for a long moment, gloved hands gripping the other man’s hips hard enough to leave marks, feeling the tight heat clench around him. Then he started to fuck—deep, measured strokes that made the other man rock forward with every thrust. The spurs on Paul’s boots chimed softly with the movement. The crop remained in one hand, occasionally cracking lightly across a thigh or the side of an ass when the other man grew too loud or tried to push back too eagerly.

“Stay still,” Paul ordered, voice rough. “You take what I give you.”

He fucked harder, the leather of his seat and thighs sliding against skin, the heavy boots planted wide for leverage. Sweat began to darken the back of his shirt. His cock dragged in and out, thick and relentless, every thrust punching soft, broken sounds from the man beneath him. Paul leaned forward, chest against the other man’s back, and reached around to wrap a gloved hand around the neglected cock hanging hard and dripping between the other man’s legs. He stroked in time with his hips—tight, proprietary pulls that made the other man shake.

“You come when I say,” Paul growled against his ear. “Not before.”

He kept the pace brutal and controlled until the other man was trembling, begging in broken whispers. Only then did Paul give the order, voice low and absolute.

“Now.”

The other man came hard, spilling over Paul’s gloved fist with a choked cry. Paul fucked him through it, never slowing, chasing his own release with a few final, punishing thrusts. When he came it was with a deep, guttural sound, burying himself to the hilt and flooding the tight heat around him. He stayed locked inside for long seconds, breathing hard, gloved hand still loosely wrapped around the other man’s spent cock.

Eventually he pulled free, the wet sound loud in the quiet room. He stood, tucked himself back into the open breeches, and wiped the crop clean on the other man’s thigh with casual ownership. Then he looked down at the man still on his hands and knees, flushed and marked and thoroughly used.

Paul’s voice was calm again, almost gentle.

“Stay like that. I’m not finished with you yet.”

Steve and Paul stood waist-deep in the cold lake water, the surface barely rippling around their heavy black fins. Both men were sealed head-to-toe in thick, glossy black military diving rubber—full-coverage dry suits that clung like a second skin, the material stretched tight over powerful thighs, calves, and the heavy rebreather units strapped to their chests. Black hoods framed their faces beneath the masks; thick corrugated breathing hoses looped from the mouthpieces, rising and falling with every slow, controlled breath.

Underneath the suits, both of them wore the same special fittings the unit had issued for long-duration ops: thick black rubber cock sheaths that locked their cocks down against their bodies, the material already slick with the slow drip of precome, and heavy rubber plugs seated deep in their asses, the flared bases pressing firmly against the inside of the suits every time they shifted.

Steve’s cock throbbed hard inside its tight rubber prison. He could feel the sheath stretching with every pulse, the smooth inner walls sliding against his shaft whenever he flexed. The plug shifted when he rocked his weight from one fin to the other, sending a dull, constant pressure through his gut that only made him harder. Paul stood beside him, equally sealed, equally trapped. Their eyes met through the glass of the masks. A slow, mutual nod.

Behind them on the bank, the two new divers were still gearing up at the open rear of the truck—taller, broader men in matching black rubber, their own rebreathers already half-assembled. Steve and Paul had never dived with them before. That was the part that made Steve’s cock twitch hardest inside the sheath.

The first of the newcomers stepped into the water, fins cutting clean ripples. His suit was just as tight, the rubber gleaming wet already. The second followed a moment later. No words were exchanged—only the soft hiss of regulators and the quiet slap of rubber against rubber as the four men moved deeper.

Steve felt Paul’s gloved hand brush the small of his back, then slide lower, fingers tracing the seam of the suit over the base of the plug. A silent question. Steve answered by turning, pressing his chest against Paul’s, the hard shells of their rebreathers knocking softly together. Underwater, everything became slower, heavier, more intimate. The lake closed over their heads.

Gloved hands found the thick bulge of the sheathed cocks through the dry-suit rubber. Steve’s hand closed around the hard, rubber-encased length trapped against Paul’s body, stroking firmly through the smooth, water-slick material. The sheath inside could not open, the suit could not be breached, but the pressure and friction still travelled perfectly—every squeeze, every slow drag of a gloved palm transmitted straight to the cock locked inside its thick rubber prison. Paul returned the touch at once, strong fingers wrapping around Steve’s equally trapped shaft, rubbing and kneading through the layers of black rubber until Steve’s hips jerked.

They drifted closer to the new pair. The taller of the two reached out without hesitation, one hand finding the back of Steve’s neck, the other sliding between his legs to press firmly against the outline of the plug still seated deep inside him. The second newcomer did the same to Paul, rolling the base of the plug through the suit with practiced pressure until Paul’s hips jerked. At the same time both newcomers took hold of the hard, sheathed cocks, stroking them through the dry-suit rubber with slow, deliberate friction—thumbs tracing the ridge of the head, palms sliding the full length, squeezing just hard enough to make the men inside shudder.

Four men in black rubber, breathing in perfect sync through their rebreathers, suspended in the green quiet of the lake. Everything stayed sealed. The only contact was rubber on rubber—gloved hands working the trapped, throbbing lengths through the thick material, pressing and rolling the plugs from outside, bodies grinding together so the hard rebreather shells and the swollen bulges of the sheathed cocks rubbed and slid. Steve came first, cock pulsing hard inside its locked rubber prison, seed spilling into the sealed sheath while the taller diver’s gloved hand kept stroking through the suit. Paul followed seconds later, body locking up, plug and cock both throbbing as he emptied himself into the thick rubber sheath that could not open.

They didn’t surface right away. The four of them simply drifted, still pressed together, still sealed in black rubber, already beginning to harden again inside the wet, clinging suits. The lake held them, silent and private, while the afternoon light filtered down through the surface above.

Steve and Paul surfaced first, the water cascading off their glossy black dry suits as they kicked toward the shallow bank. The two newcomers followed close behind, their own rebreathers still hissing softly. One by one the four men waded out of the lake, heavy fins leaving deep prints in the soft mud, rubber suits streaming water that ran in rivulets down their thighs and calves.

They stood together on the grass, breathing hard through the mouthpieces, masks still in place, bodies sealed tight in thick military rubber. The afternoon air felt almost warm against the cold, wet surfaces of their suits. Steve reached up and unclipped his mask, letting it hang around his neck; Paul did the same. The two new divers followed, revealing strong faces already flushed with the same slow heat that had built underwater.

The taller of the newcomers stepped in close to Steve, gloved hands already moving. He ran his palms down Steve’s chest, over the hard shell of the rebreather, then lower—across the flat stomach, along the seams of the dry suit, until his fingers found the thick, unmistakable bulge of the sheathed cock still locked tight against Steve’s body. He squeezed once, firm and deliberate, feeling the hard length trapped inside its rubber prison. Steve’s hips twitched.

“Still hard,” the man murmured, voice low. His hand slid further back, between Steve’s legs, and pressed upward. The flared base of the plug was easy to feel through the suit—round, solid, seated deep. The newcomer’s eyes narrowed with interest. “And plugged too.”

Beside them, the second newcomer was doing the same to Paul—running both hands over the wet rubber, mapping every contour. When his fingers found the same heavy bulge and the firm shape of the plug pressing against the seat of Paul’s suit, he gave a short, approving nod. “Matching set,” he said quietly. “Nice.”

Steve and Paul stood still while the two men explored them, gloved hands sliding slowly over every sealed surface—chest, hips, the thick thighs, the heavy outline of the sheathed cocks, the unmistakable plugs that kept them filled and open. The rubber was still slick from the lake; every touch left wet streaks that caught the light. Neither Steve nor Paul moved to stop it. Their own hands rose in answer, finding the newcomers’ bodies in turn—feeling the solid muscle under tight black rubber, the hard lines of their rebreathers, the equally prominent bulges that proved both men were just as trapped and just as ready.

Four sealed figures stood close on the bank, water still dripping from their suits, gloves moving with slow, thorough curiosity. The two newcomers kept returning to the plugs, pressing and rolling the bases through the dry-suit rubber, feeling how deeply Steve and Paul were filled. Every firm push made the two of them shift, cocks twitching inside their locked sheaths, the thick rubber prisons already beginning to fill again with fresh heat.