cheerleaders, all tapping away into the night

Frank Benson awoke with a groan, wordlessly pulled from his lips, the familiar ache residing deep within his lower back already present. Fumbling in the darkness of his bedroom, he somehow located his phone, silencing his insistent alarm—still the preprogrammed, irritating beeping—with a sharp jab of his thick thumb. Beside him in the blackness, he felt the bedsheets stir, your knee brushing against the knobby bone of his leg. 

“Frank?” You asked the man, voice full of sleep, and far too much sweetness than he deserved. 

“Mmmm?” He answered, with a great, deep rumble of his throat. Your narrow fingers, much shorter than his, had found one of his bare, rather hairy forearms over the duvet, and begun to give the limb gentle pets.

“Happy birthday, love,” he softly heard, chest breaking at how sincere you were, even in the wee hours of the morning, when no human should be awake. 

“Thank you, darling,” he spoke, baritone catching, whether from disuse or emotion, he did not know. Your hand’s stroking slowed.

“I have a surprise for you…” You told him, and he could hear the mischievous spark in your eyes through your voice.

“Ohh?” He asked, already knowing there would be no chance of you revealing one of your schemes.

“Later tonight, when you come home…” There was hope, and a trace of something horribly affectionate edging your tone. Your hand had left his forearm, entwining itself with his thick fingers. Your metal ring was ice cold against him.

“However, will I wait?” The playful, slightly sarcastic query earned him an eyeroll he did not need to see to know it was there, and a half-hearted slap aimed at his bicep as you pulled your hand away from him in mock indignation.

“Frank,” you exasperatedly huffed, breaking into uncontrollable giggles alongside your husband’s low chuckles. “You’ll wait patiently if you know what’s good for you,” you tried to sound serious, but one could hardly sound so serious after being brought to tears of laughter.

“Ah, so it’s that kind of surprise.” There was far too much pride and satisfaction brimming in Frank’s voice for your taste.

“It’s a surprise, Frank, you can hardly expect me to be so forthcoming.” He had stood up from the bed and turned on a lamp, now dragging a military green jacket over his plain white undershirt with less coordination than usual, intent as he was on winning this new round of banter. 

“So it is a fun surprise. Deflection always signals a direct hit, sweetheart. You should never have married a former interrogator if you wanted to keep your secrets safe.” He was smirking, zipping up the tight-fitting trousers you thought perfectly complemented his arse, when you could get away with ogling him from behind.

“You’re insufferable.” There was no bite to your words.

“And? I already know that.” His boots were nearly laced to his ankles.

“And you’re lucky you have work.” He stood up so fast he was swaying, face wrinkled in fake hurt.

“Oi! That was hurtful!”

“And you’re lucky it’s your birthday, Franklin. It’s not every day a man turns sixty-three.” He supposed his wife had a point, as he kissed you goodbye, making his way out your shared bedroom and downstairs, the smell of coffee wafting to the upper floor entirely welcome to his nostrils.

Frank was in between meetings, walking to the large conference room at the end of the hall, when he thought of his wife’s words once more. It’s not every day a man turns sixty-three. 

It wasn’t one of those important birthdays—not a milestone or an age ending in nought. But you were making it feel special—perhaps because it would be the first time they’d be celebrating while married. 

The Lieutenant General could not shake the excitement swelling within his chest at the thought of what you might have planned that evening—he only hoped he could be home early. 

Frank shook himself from his wandering thoughts—it wouldn’t do to be thinking of–of whatever sinful things you wound up doing for him later tonight while in a meeting concerned with the prospect of launching a proportionate response to a recent anti-democratic uprising in southern Africa. Frank was suddenly quite pleased he’d be able to retire in two years.

Frank stumbled through the doorway, utterly exhausted and forty-five minutes later than usual. His meetings had run long—an attack had been planned, but the American Secretary of Defense and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had both dragged their feet trying to come to a decision. As a result—everyone decided against engagement, stating the risk of civilian casualty to be too great, and other bureaucratic nonsense that often convinces Frank that perhaps he had chosen the wrong profession. War was not like it once was, he thought to himself, wryly. 

He left the doorstep and entered the kitchen, spotting the chocolate cake resting on the stove, stopping at the island in the middle to nick a few chips before being discovered. Hearing the door click shut, you popped your head around the corner, snorting at the sight of Frank chewing and guiltily looking about the room.

“Hullo,” he tried to mouth through cold, fried potato, sounding more like, “Hul–ommsh.” You let out another undignified snort at Frank’s vulnerable state, beginning to reheat Frank’s favorite meal you had cooked for him: fish and chips.

“You’re late,” you quietly murmured, back turned to Frank, who was sheepishly swallowing the last of his chewed-up chips with an audible gulp. 

“Meetings again with a bunch of indecisive pricks who should never have gone into the business of modern warfare—the rest is classified, I’m afraid, my dear.” He was awkwardly sitting at the counter, legs too long for the small metal chair, his knees bent at an odd angle.

You didn’t mind Frank’s need for secrecy, but it did sometimes make it difficult to offer the restrained man comfort or understanding. “I just wish they didn’t keep you so long—the hours aren’t fair for you.”

“That’s part of the gig, sweetheart,” Frank smirked, watching the muscles of your arse shift as you pulled the meal from the oven. His tight-fitting trousers suddenly felt a few cinches tighter. “All the higher-ups were held back.”

“Still,” you grumbled, blowing a few wisps of hair out of your eyes after standing upright, waving an oven mitt over the steaming food. 

“It won’t be forever.” Frank’s voice had gone uncharacteristically soft and fragile, something you did not have the heart to wheedle out of him on so momentous a day. You placed a steaming plate in front of the man with a smile, and Frank’s socked feet tapping an unrecognizable beat along the metal chair’s low-hanging bar stopped.

With a whir, the dishwasher roared to life, the sound of water tossed around deafening in the otherwise silent kitchen. Frank was leaning back in his metal chair as far as the hind legs allowed (which was not very far, in truth), thick hands folded over his stuffed belly. He’d already loosened his belt’s notch two holes while you weren’t looking. 

You had waltzed behind him, small hands, still wet from rinsing off dishes in the sink, running through his thinning snow-white hair before trailing lower to knead the stiffening muscles of his neck. 

He groaned, the sensation of your fingers caressing his scalp magic, like belonging, like home. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, a murmured, “Bedroom,” breathed against him. Excitement pressed to the forefront of his stomach, the thing he’d been mentally ready for all day, his promised surprise, only minutes away.

Frank hesitated, his large body backed up against the solid wooden door, heart hammering like he was expecting a sentence of execution to fall from your pink lips. How often was it that he had you pinned, back hard-pressed to a door or wall? Oh, how the tables had turned, and for some reason, likely tied to a buried portion of his psyche, he quite liked it, this strange turn of events. 

Your nimble, narrow fingers were making quick work of his green jacket, untucking the material out of his trousers, the movement across the front of his crotch causing his drowsy cock to stir. Purposefully taking your time with the buttons at his collar, you stroked along his finally bared neck, marvelling at the way his shoulders, the shoulders of a man who never flinched when met with imminent danger, shivered. 

You kissed at the loose, warm flesh of his neck, Frank’s breath coming in sharp, short pants, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath your mouth. You released him, stroking the wispy curls of hair sprouting above the collar of his white undershirt. He was not calm, his neck tilted back in bliss, eyes pinched shut, and still gasping as if he had just sprinted a marathon. 

“Stop teasing me, woman,” he grumbled, baritone husky and straining. You responded by lifting the white undershirt up over his broad shoulders, exposing his chest and stomach to the drafty room. He was hairy, wiry black and white curls peppered across his front, thinning only where a jagged scar, pale with age, scraped from his navel to below the cut of his trousers. Frank’s nipples, pink and pebbled beneath the sprawling hair, seemed to beg you to be touched. Ignoring the Lieutenant General’s warning, you guided your index finger from the center of his chest, barely touching his soft flesh, until you met the end of his sagging belly. His eyes fluttered. Your fingers disappeared, and he was now adrift.

Frank shifted uncomfortably under your ministrations, suddenly aware he was half-naked in the bedroom's yellow lamplight, while you remained fully dressed, hands held behind you, shaking uneasily. He startled back into the wooden door when your hands flew from behind your back, whatever was held in your grasp catching the light, the reflection shining straight into his face. 

“Handcuffs?” He heard his low voice mutter, unnaturally hesitant. Your expression merged from hopeful to sheepish, confidence lacking behind your bright eyes. Frank could kick himself for causing you disappointment.

“Errr—I wanted to—erhm—tease you a bit—and—well, take control.” You were biting your bottom lip innocently, though less than innocent images were making themselves known in Frank’s mind, particularly ones involving you, straddled atop his—-

“Put them on,” he spoke, so quiet it was a wonder you heard the sound over the radiator’s incessant rattle.

“If you don’t want to, Frank, I won’t make—”

“Just do it, before I change my bloody mind, woman.” Frank then realized this might have been a mistake, your eyes sparkling with mischief. A smile he’d never seen before, and perhaps more wicked-looking than he’d ever seen you wear, now flashed his way. 

He never registered you spinning him around by the belt loops of his trousers, his belly now tightly pressed, flush against the door. He heard the click of metal closing against metal, felt you tug the chain that now connected his wrists behind his back until he was facing you once more, his cock half-hard and aching.

Leaning up on tiptoe, as tall as you could reach, yet still shorter than Frank’s imposing stature, you whispered a command into the older man’s ear. “On the bed.”

A man as accustomed to obeying orders as he was commanding them, Frank’s feet took him to the bed before he registered the dominance in your tone, his need for release all he could think about. He flopped against the mountain of pillows piled in front of the walnut headboard, stocky legs spread wide apart, trapped hands playing with a loose thread from one of the pillowcases behind him. His hazel eyes focused on you, laying the key to his bonds on the faraway dresser, slowly unbuttoning the fastening on your denim jeans.

He was enthralled, watching your lightly tanned thighs appear out of the sea of blue, distracted by the muscle stretching along the side of your calf rippling when you kicked the trousers to the corner with just the lazy flick of one leg. Your emerald green sweater, a present from him for your birthday, was next to go, leaving your shoulders fully bare, hell, leaving most of you bare.

Metal clinked as he wrestled with his bonds, his hands desiring nothing more than to be permitted to touch. Frank wanted to feel the soft crevice of your bony collarbone, wanted to press the wavy curls gathered at the back of your neck his way for a passionate kiss, one that expressed far more than he ever could with the limitations of the English language. 

He was firmly struck by your lingerie—a gentle green bra, decorated in black lace so sheer he could see every detail of your breasts—of your nipples—when you swayed toward the light. Your panties were that same gentle green with black lace—but crotchless—and he was hard-pressed to avoid staring at the perfectly framed exposed slit resting between your thighs.

Frank did not know which part of you was the most sensible to maintain eye contact with, so he instead was left to eye you up and down as your legs strutted forward, not stopping until you were straddling his lap. A moan, unrestrained and vulnerable, tore from deep in the recesses of his throat as he watched, unhindered, as your lower lips spread apart, clear slickness already glistening against the pink flesh. His dick, fully erect and impatient, throbbed against his leg, displeased with the layer of fabric separating him from your cunt.

Frank jerked forward, fluffy white hair, soft and disheveled, pressed into your neck in an armless embrace. He gave a frustrated huff, as you cradled his head, fingers carding through his hair before rubbing circles along his broad back. “Patience, birthday boy.” You smirked at Frank’s groan, pushing him back into the mountain of pillows with a little thud. He struggled to return upright, trapped hands no help in maintaining even an iota of balance. 

“To hell with patience.” Frank was more bark than bite, his unbearable frustration obvious beneath the tent pitched within his trousers.

Tracing down the jagged scar striping across Frank’s stomach, you met the buckle of his belt, slipping the leather out through the curving metal fastener. Frank’s zipper and the button of his trousers were next, each touch making his dick grow firmer, each touch forcing him to swallow back an unmanly whimper. 

His trousers were pulled down, boxers included, into a bunched-up bundle at his knees, erection finally springing free, happily curving toward you. He was big; nearly seven inches ending in a spongy, angry red tip steadily leaking pre like a broken faucet. 

The gentle green silk lace fell to the floor. Frank couldn’t keep his eyes from boring twin holes at your chest, so engrossed was he in the work of art before him. He hissed when you pressed against his front, heartbeat to racing heartbeat, hazel eyes finally breaking their impenetrable stare as he met the mischief bubbling deep within your gaze. His cock jumped beneath you as you kissed along his jaw, lightly stubbled and scratchy, and beginning to lose definition with age.

“I love you.” It was spoken so soundlessly you barely even caught the faint syllables gasped aloud into the darkness, yet they brought warmth to your chest, reassurance to the shaky confidence you were desperately trying to strengthen for the general. You said nothing, for it was often better to say nothing at all when Frank was so tenderhearted and bare with you, never breaking eye contact as you slid his rigid shaft inside your glistening wet entrance. 

Frank groaned with your movement, nearly losing full control early as you began to hump his cock, mourning the imprisonment of his arms, for there was nothing he desired more in that moment than to ease you up and down his aching member himself. You mewled freely, his swollen dick hitting the back of your walls, just how you liked, leaving Frank to feel as if he were little more than a glorified dildo.

Pressure had begun to build within his lower balls, the tightness coming with every labored thrust of his hips he gave to meet your hole, his arms still restrained behind his back, pressed into the puddle of pillows stacked along the headboard. Once again, he didn’t know where to look, caught between your sagging breasts swinging with each thrust, begging for a touch he could not gift, or your pussy lips, through which his shaft entered and exited, dripping with the collected juices of your lovemaking, or your eyes, heated and loving, sending a twitch to both his heart and his cock with every second of pleasure that passed. 

Frank was slowing down, and you both knew it. Each upward thrust of his hips was even more unbalanced and erratic than the last, the ache in his groin growing to be too much for him to bear. You were attempting to steady him, thin, narrow fingers digging little crescents into his broad shoulders, likely to remain a scar for the next week for him to proudly hide beneath his uniform. 

“C–Close,” he stammered, quite uncharacteristically, the sound sending a wave of pride deep within your belly. Frank was not one to be so discomposed, even during sex.

“Cum, cum for me, Frank,” you raspily panted, hips roughly slamming onto his. “Give it to me—give it all to me!”

Frank moaned; how could he deny you that? Your walls fluttered against him, squeezing his shaft like a warmed blanket, your orgasm underway. He followed, balls pulsing, drawing up, his cock releasing spurt after spurt of warm seed deep into your womb. You rocked into him, only shallowly thrusting in the aftermath of pleasure, you enjoying the feeling of fullness, Frank enjoying the feeling of filling you. You were curled against his chest, your bodies sweaty and panting. Frank was breathing heavily, scarred belly rising and falling beneath you, your head tucked under his chin in your caring embrace. You missed his strong arms holding you, suddenly regretting locking him in handcuffs for the first time that evening.

“M’ arms are falling asleep.” As if on cue, Frank grumbled into your curls, baritone voice coarse and gravelly. This would be Frank’s subtle signal that his arms were hurting, and you silently worried that perhaps pinning his wrists behind his back may have been too stressful. You weren’t quite ready to move yet either, Frank’s dick fully sheathed inside, still quite stiff and already prepared for a second round, pressed as far in as he could manage. 

“It’s on the dresser.” With a pained cry, you attempted to unbury yourself, the movement much too harsh a sensation for your sensitive limbs to process just yet. A noise—like metal scraping and chinking against metal—sounded, strong arms surrounding your shuddering form, grounding you. The pain between your legs stopped, the image before you suddenly clear. 

Frank grasped you at the upper arms, hazel eyes crinkled with worry, broken chains dangling from the metal cuffs attached to his wrists. “Are you all right?” His tone was gruff with hidden fear, the tight grip on your arms beginning to sting. You nodded, mouth open in awe as you stared at his wrists.

“You didn’t really think those could hold me, dearest, did you?” You looked up into his hazel eyes, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk of satisfaction. 

Impressed, but not wishing for him to detect that, you launched yourself into a tirade, “Frank, those cost me nearly twenty quid! You’re lucky it’s your bloody birthday!”