Dominated

I picked the far end of the bar. Neutral territory. Close to the exit, far from the speakers.

I hadn’t been in a gay club in years. Mario begged. Fifth anniversary, he said, let’s do something fun. I offered to book us a B&B up the coast – wild salmon, a stone fireplace and coffee in bed. He wanted to sweat under disco lights.  I'm a people pleaser, so…

My old fashioned was garbage.  A dry orange peel and too much simple syrup. I nursed it and watched my husband dance.

He was in the middle of the floor, shirt gone by the second track. Mario used to dance every weekend — shirtless, sweaty, embedded in a pack of twunks. He still knew the room by muscle memory.  Eyes closed, neck loose, smile beaming out. God, he looked happy.

Now we live in the suburbs. We host dinner parties. Mario calligraphies place cards. I decant the wine. He tells the story about the time he took shots with a reality star. We stack plates like a team and kiss each other on the forehead and go to bed in separate bedrooms. Our sex life — if I’m being honest — took early retirement.

I shifted on the barstool and tried not to feel awkward. Not old, but not young. Somewhere in the middle and looking like an accountant. Like I had a spreadsheet for intimacy.

“Another?” the bartender asked.  I was nursing my drink too long and he knew it.

“Let me finish this one,” I said. He smiled in that professional way and slid me a water.

“You better hydrate Daddy,” the bartender said.

On the floor, Mario threw his head back and laughed. It's not our life anymore, but it's nice seeing him having some fun.

I took a small sip and tried to imagine how the night would go. If Mario drank like Mario, he’d want to keep dancing until the lights went up. He’d wrap an arm around my waist on the sidewalk and call me “baby” his voice hoarse from shouting all  night, and then we’d ride through the quiet city.  He'd droop against the window and wake him up just enough to walk him inside. I’d get him water, tuck him in, then brush my teeth and go to bed alone.  Or — in the optimistic scenario — we’d kiss and laugh and pretend we were still in our old apartment with the broken AC and the mattress on the floor. We’d try, is what I mean. Who knew if we'd succeed.

If I were a different man, I’d be on the floor with Mario, but I dance like a dad at a wedding. He always asks – “Come on, Spencer. Just one song.”

A college aged bro slid onto the stool beside me. Backwards cap. Navy tank clinging to his shoulders. He looked like someone you'd trust to carry a couch.

My heart did that little elevator jump. I pretended to study the peel in my glass and failed. I could smell his deodorant. He took a sip of his beer, then half-turned toward me like he was an old friend.

“Hey,” he said. Easy voice, a half-step above the bass. “I’m Josh. Haven’t seen you around.”

He caught the bartender’s eye, made a quick gesture, and got a beer in return. “Thanks,” he said, and handed the man a ten.  I used the time to remember my name.

“Spencer,” I said, and pointed behind us at the dance floor. “That’s my husband, Mario.”

"Haha, message received," Josh laughed and put his hands up in mock surrender. "I just thought you looked like a nice guy. I’m desperate for a good conversation."

“You picked the wrong room for that,” I said, but I couldn’t help a smile. “I’m sure you get hit on plenty.”

Josh rolled one shoulder like he was loosening it between sets. “Yeah. Lately it feels like every guy I talk to goes super aggressive in, like… three sentences. I dunno why. Maybe I just have a type.”

“Loud?” I said.

“Dominant,” he said, lips quirking. “They want a trophy. Buy me a drink, tell me I’m pretty, and then try to dictate my life. It’s wild.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, automatic and sincere.

Josh took another slow sip and nodded at my glass. “Old fashioned?”

“In name only.”  I tapped the rim. “We’re in a club. I’ll survive.”

His eyes flicked to the dance floor, then back. “Your husband’s got moves.”

“He does,” I said, and my chest did something complicated and soft. “This used to be his church.”

“Good church,” Josh said. He didn’t push past that. “What about you, Spencer-who-sits-at-the-end-of-the-bar?”

“I got drafted,” I said. “Anniversary.”

"Congrats," he whistled under his breath. “First one?”

“Fifth,” I said, twisting the ring because my hands like clichés. “We're boring suburban gays now. Tonight...” I gestured at the lights, the fog, the thrum. “Tonight's just nostalgia.”

The bartender drifted back, clocked the empty coaster in front of Josh, and set down another without being asked.

“So,” Josh said. “Tell me something that's not on LinkedIn.”

“About a week before our wedding there was a big thunderstorm,” I said. “I made popcorn, and we cuddled on the couch, and we watched it for hours”

“Okay, that’s adorable,” he said. “And extremely specific.” He lifted his glass. “To extremely specific.”

I touched mine to his. I couldn't hear the clink, but I felt it.

“I’m glad you pointed him out,” Josh said. “Makes this simpler.”

“Makes what simpler?” I asked.

“Me not flirting with you on accident,” he said, almost apologetic. “I come off that way sometimes. I mean well. I’m actually just looking for a conversation that isn’t ‘what’s your sign’ and ‘ab check.’”

“Tragic,” I said. “I was about to ask your sign.”

“You can if you want,” he said. “But I’m a Leo, so consider yourself warned.  Nice to meet you, Spencer.”

“Likewise.”

"It's nice to have a conversation with a guy who's not planning how I'll look in bondage."

“I’m sure that’s not your fault,” I said. “And—look—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude before. It’s just… it’s my fifth anniversary, and all my husband wanted to do was come dance in some dive.” I winced and added, “No offence.”

Josh snorted. “None taken. I like dives. Also—wow. You don’t look old enough to have been married that long.”

“Charmer,” I said, laughing despite myself. “I’m thirty-two. Mario’s twenty-nine. We weren’t exactly old when we did it, but nobody mistakes us for college kids anymore.”

“Thirty-two,” he repeated, like he was testing the number for squeaks. “Nothing wrong with that.  Some people act like being older is bad, but I kinda like when a guy is more… mature.”

The word landed warmer than I expected. Mature. I felt my shoulders unknot half an inch.

“Maybe that’s why you end up with aggressive guys,” I said, tipping my glass at him.

On the floor, Mario found a new pocket of friends and let them take him in like a lost cousin. The light hit his shoulders. I felt that complicated softness again and let it sit there.  Josh took another drink

“Something about me…” he ran his finger along the rim. “I dunno why, but guys want to dominate me.”

On the last word, his eyes snapped toward the dance floor and caught a ray of light. For a second they flashed — green-gold, oily. I couldn't help but look.

It felt like staring through a window at night and seeing a shadow in the dark. My breath went shallow. The room blurred at the edges, everything else smearing into bass and fog while his gaze stayed bright and hard. I tried to blink and didn’t. I tried to glance away and couldn’t.

Then Josh looked down at his beer and the spell — or whatever it was — let go. I remembered how to breathe. My heart was thudding stupidly high in my throat.

That was… weird.

I found my water, took a mouthful, felt my tongue catch up with the rest of me. It was the strobe lights, I told myself. Or the booze. Not enough dinner. Nostalgia. Jealousy. Any explanation would do.

“You good?” Josh asked, eyes ordinary again.

“Yeah,” I said, too quickly. I forced a smile and tapped my ring against the glass. “Just got dizzy for a second.”

“Happens,” he said, a little shrug that could’ve meant anything.

He took another pull from the bottle, then said it like he was confessing to a stranger on a plane. “I wish I could go home with a nice guy.” A beat. “Like you.”

I looked at him and couldn’t help the little smirk. “Nah,” I said. “You’re young and horny and in the prime of your life. My husband and me… we haven’t had sex in months… I’d just domesticate you.” My eyes drifted to Mario on the floor—laughing, shining, being exactly himself.

“I’d like to see you try,” Josh chuckled.

Something cocky unlatched in my chest. I shifted on my stool so we were face to face, a little too far into his space. “Don’t get smart with me, boy,” I said—unsure what I was saying until I heard the words..

Josh's face lit up like a puppy with its favourite toy.  It made me laugh.

“What’s wrong, champ?” I snorted.  I set my hand on his thighs and squeezed, firm enough to be a statement. “You leading me on?”

“No…” he said, voice going a shade lower.

“No?” I raised an eyebrow.

“No… sir?” he said, testing it.

“Good boy,” I told him, the words flowing out of me. I lifted a hand for the bartender. “Two tequilas,” I added, tapping the bar. “My tab.”

The bartender glanced at Josh. Josh shrugged, all innocence and a tiny smile.

“The boy’s with me,” I told the bartender.

“That's what they all say,” he groaned, but he poured the drinks anyway.

We tossed the tequila and I stood up. I hooked a finger into the neck of Josh’s tank.

“Come on,” I told him, tilting my head at the dance floor.

He left a half-empty pint behind.  I put my hand at the small of his back and walked him through the crowd. I didn't know where it was coming from, but I knew I was in control.

In the middle of the floor I stepped close to him and set my hands on his hips. “Here,” I said, and moved him to the beat I wanted. He followed in a half-second lag, then caught up. I felt the moment he found it—hips loosening, shoulders dropping.

“Arms,” I said. He lifted them. I pressed one wrist to the back of his head and rested my forearm across his collarbones like a bar. Gentle but firm.  He made a sound I pretended not to hear.

“You’re fine,” I said into his ear. “Breathe.”

He nodded.  I slid my hand under his cap, curled my fingers at the nape, and steered him an inch left to dodge a flailing twink. He went where I put him, no resistance at all.  I loved the way it made me feel.

The lights passed over us like weather, and for a beat his eyes flashed the way they had at the bar — green and gold.

“Count my beat,” I told him. “Follow my moves.”

“Yes, sir,” he said without thinking, and then tried to play it off with a crooked grin.  His body moved to my rhythm.

We started slow, like a lesson. I set my palm flat on his sternum and pushed until his weight shifted back, then drew him in and felt him settle. When he tried to add a little flourish, I closed my hand and the flourish disappeared. “Good,” I said. “Simple.” His mouth opened like he wanted to argue — then he swallowed it and gave me exactly what I asked for.

Somewhere to my right, Mario whooped. I didn’t look. I should have. Instead I let the bass pull me forward until we were chest to chest, my hand at the back of Josh’s neck, my thumb running one slow line along his jaw. I felt him shiver.

“You wanted conversation,” I said. “But I don't wanna talk.”

“That so?” he asked, trying to keep it light.

“That's right boy. Tell me you understand.”

He glanced aside like he was searching for a joke, then came back to me and nodded.

“I understand.”

“Words.”

“I understand, sir.”

I spun him, palm on his shoulder, and lined us up with the room. My left hand found his left hand and pinned it to his stomach, the right at his hip guiding the sway. He was taller by a couple inches, broader by a lot, and still he fit in the space I made gave him.

“You want this,” I said, mouth near his ear. “Don't you?”

“Maybe I’m polite.”

“You’re obedient,” I said. He nodded once like I was a doctor giving him a diagnosis.

I shouldn’t have been this hard in the head about it. Five years in and I’m the man who folds napkins with crisp corners and asks what we need from the store and makes sure the guest towels are fresh. People pleaser as a profession. And yet here I was dancing with a stranger.  The part of me that apologizes was very, very quiet.

“You’re blushing,” I told him.

“It’s the lights,” he said, which was adorable, because the lights were blue.

“Uh-huh.” I eased his cap off, turned it in my hand, and put it back on him backward again. “Keep your eyes on me.”

“Yes, sir.” This time he didn’t pretend.

I felt the heat rolling off him and, under it, the restraint. He could have taken over any time; he didn’t. He let me set the edge and then kept us there. Power, but not the ugly kind. Permission to stop asking and start telling.

The song crested. He stepped in a fraction, testing. I didn’t give. I just pressed two fingers under his chin and tipped his face up. “Good boy,” I said again.

I had a husband twenty feet away and I couldn't care less.

Josh swallowed. “You’re full of surprises,” he said.

We danced like that for another minute—his body obeying the line of my hands, my brain finally, blessedly quiet — and for the first time all night I felt something unlock that had nothing to do with nostalgia. Present tense.

That was when Mario slid in, sweaty and bright, a hand landing light on my shoulder. “Hey, baby—who’s your—”

“We’re busy,” I said without turning, my palm still at the back of Josh’s neck. “Give us a minute.”

Mario’s hand paused. “Wow. Okay.” A laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “Didn’t realize I needed an appointment.”

I turned then, just enough to meet his eyes. “Please,” I said, and the word came out wrong—flat, not pleading. “Go dance.”

Josh started to step back. I tightened two fingers on his nape and he stayed. “Eyes on me,” I told him, quiet. He obeyed like the music had told him first.

Mario looked from my hand to Josh’s face and back to me. “Spence?” he said cautiously.

“Later,” I said. “I’m in something.”

He blinked, taken aback. Hurt flickered and then the practiced party smile snapped on like a night light. “Right,” he said. “Have fun.”

He started to turn. Guilt pricked, late and useless. I reached out and caught his wrist, not hard, just enough to stop the spin. “Hey,” I said. “I said later. Wait your turn.”

Mario studied me for a breath, the bass shaking between us. “Since when do you talk to me like that?” he asked, soft.

“Since now,” I said, and I hated how true it sounded.  I kept my hand on Josh’s neck and faced Mario square. “This is Josh,” I said. “He’s coming home with us.”

Mario glanced between me and Josh.

“Whoa. I’m sure you’re great and everything, but—”

“Sorry,” Josh cut in, looking straight into his eyes. “I didn’t realize you’re the one in charge.”

His eyes flashed again — green-gold, like the light caught oil — and Mario… chuckled. A low, surprised sound that curled into something confident.

“Oh, I’m in charge?” Mario said, stepping in until the three of us were a tight knot in the crowd. He hooked two fingers under Josh’s chin and tipped it up.

“You heard him,” I said, my palm firming at Josh’s neck. “Answer.”

“Yes, sir,” Josh breathed, then — because he’s a quick study — “Yes, sirs.”

“Good start,” Mario said, his mouth curling into a smirk. He slid to Josh’s side, one hand finding the back of his shoulder, easing him half a step where he wanted him.

I caught Josh’s wrist and placed his palm flat to my chest. “Here.” Then I took his other hand and put it at Mario’s hip. “There. Don’t improvise.”

“Yes, sir.”

We boxed him in without looking like we were boxing him in—my forearm resting across his collarbones, Mario’s palm at his jaw, both of us steering the sway. He was broad and compliant.  He acted cool, but the heat was getting to him. I felt it in the way his breath changed when I said, “Good boy,” and in the way his knees softened when Mario murmured “That's right.”

Mario met my eyes over Josh’s shoulder. Something unspoken clicked into place, the two of us on the same page for the first time all night. He dragged his thumb along Josh’s jaw, a slow underline. “Say who you’re with,” Mario said.

“I’m with you,” Josh said.

“And?” I prompted, tightening my grip a hair.

“I’m with you. Both of you.”

“Say ‘thank you,’” I told Josh.

“Thank you, sirs.”

“Louder.”

“Thank you, sirs.” He didn’t care who heard.

Mario leaned in, breath warm at Josh’s ear. “You’re coming home with us,” he said, echoing me, claiming it out loud.

“Yes, sir,” Josh said again, eyes bright under the lights.

“Good boy,” we said together without planning it.  He looked so happy.

I looked at Mario. “I wanna go.”

Mario’s smile went sharp. “I want to fuck.”

“That too,” I said, the words landing like a promise.

Mario turned to Josh without missing a beat. “C’mon, boy,” he said, palm settling at the back of Josh’s shoulder. “We’re going.”

“Yes, sirs,” Josh answered, already moving when we moved him.

We peeled off the floor as a unit. I caught the bartender’s eye and lifted two fingers; he nodded, got the message, and slid our checks onto my card.

---------

The air was cool outside.  Mario squeezed Josh’s shoulder once, firm. I raised an arm, whistled, and a cab pulled an illegal U-Turn for me.

I slid in first. Josh folded into the middle, big shoulders trying to be small, and Mario rounded out the ride, door thunking shut behind him. I have the driver my address. He grunted and pulled into the river of late-night traffic.

It’s a half hour out. The city blurred by in neon.

“Hands on your knees,” I told Josh. He obeyed, thighs tight under my palm. “Good.”

“Chin up,” Mario added, fingers at Josh’s jaw, tipping it like he was checking the light. “And look at me when I talk to you.”

“Yes, sirs,” Josh said, a whisper that still filled the cab.  The driver had his eyes fixed on the road.

I set my arm along the back of the seat so my fingers rested on the back of Josh's neck. Mario draped his across Josh’s chest like a seatbelt that had opinions. We were both gentle, but we weren't subtle.

“You’re a quick study,” I said.

“He was born for it,” Mario countered, thumb dragging a lazy line along Josh’s collarbone. “Weren’t you, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Josh said, and his breath hitched just enough to count.

“Say what you are,” I told him.

He hesitated, then — “Obedient.”

“Louder.”

“Obedient.”

“Good boy,” Mario said before I could, shooting me a sideways grin like he’d stolen my line on purpose. Then he plucked the cap off Josh’s head, flipped it backwards, and settled it on his own curls. “Taking this.”

Josh looked at him, openly pleased. “It looks good on you.”

“Thanks, boy,” Mario smirked.

I reached over, pinched the brim, and tilted it a fraction to centre it. “Don’t get too cute,” I told Mario, which made Josh choke on a laugh.

Traffic slowed at a light. I nudged Josh’s knees wider with mine until his legs framed the seatback. “Stay open.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Back straight,” Mario said. “Shoulders down. Breathe.” He was enjoying this—a lot. So was I. Every time he set a rule, I set the next one cleaner. Every time I praised, he sharpened it with a test.  We worked so well together.

The driver pretended not to notice. Fine by me. We kept it PG to a civilian eye — hands, posture, voice — but the air in the backseat hummed with the kind of current you don’t explain to strangers.

“Tell us something true,” I said, echoing the bar. “No emojis.”

Josh swallowed. “I liked when you told me how to dance.”

“Of course you did,” Mario said, satisfied. “Good boy.”

The half hour collapsed the way good rides do. The cab rolled to a stop at our curb. I was already reaching for my wallet. “What's the fare?” I asked, and paid it.

Mario leaned forward, slid a bill that was more than generous through the partition. “And for your patience,” he said to the driver, not looking back at me.

The driver’s eyes flicked up in the mirror, then down at the tip. “Have a good night,” he said.

We spilled out onto the sidewalk. I slung an arm around Josh’s shoulders and felt him slot into the space. Mario didn’t look back.

----------

Mario took us straight to his room.  I shut the bedroom door with my heel and the house fell quiet.

“Shoes off,” I told Josh. He kicked them away and stood there big and attentive, hands at his sides like he was waiting on inspection.

“I’d love to get fucked,” I said, because why not say what you need? The words felt like a door I hadn’t opened in a while.

“I want to get my pole in that hole,” Mario said, grin sharp. Crude on purpose.

Josh swallowed. “I don’t think I can take both,” he said, flicking a glance between us. “But… maybe you can take turns? Fuck or get fucked — I’m down for both. Just… who’s in charge?”

The question hung there, warm as breath.

I stepped closer to Mario, chest to chest, and felt the old familiar electricity of us. He cocked his head.

“My house,” I said, quietly. “My rules.”

“Our house,” Mario corrected, softer but no less firm. "MY rules.”

I turned to Josh. “Kneel.”

He started to drop. Mario’s hand closed over my wrist before Josh’s knees hit carpet.

“Hold,” Mario told him without looking away from me. Josh froze instantly, eyes bright.

We were squared off now, somewhere between angry and playful, that space that only exists when two people know exactly where they stand. Josh's cap looked right on him — I was annoyed and turned on at the same time.

“Say it,” Mario said. “Tell him who’s really in charge.”

“You wanna get on your knees too?” I asked him, knowing I was right.

Josh gave a small whimper. He was still on his feet, waiting. His eyes flicked over the lamp, the bed, us. When they passed across Mario’s face they flashed — just a lick of that green-gold again — and then went normal. It felt like the room leaned forward.

“Boy,” Mario said without taking his eyes off me, “How's it go when two alphas want the same toy?”

“I think…” Josh wet his lips. “I think they have to fight for it.”

It started with shoulders — mine squaring, his answering — then the quick clash of hands on wrists, each of us testing for balance, leverage, give. We’ve moved furniture together; we know each other’s center of gravity. The bed squeaked under our weight as we hit the mattress sideways, grappling like we’d been born to it. Two powerful men trying to put the other where he belongs.

Josh stepped back and grinned, wide and boyish, and dropped into Mario's easy chair like a fan with front‑row seats. He sat wide‑kneed, shoulders braced, eyes glued to us. His breath went rough; one hand slid down into his shorts and started to move—unabashed, rhythmic, the chair giving a tiny creak in time. He was here to watch everything; he watched the push, the pin, the give.

Mario tried a hip switch; I countered with a knee and rode the angle, forearm under his shoulder blade, my weight lining him up flat. He bucked and nearly had me — he’s quick when he decides to be — but I shifted higher, caught his wrist, and stacked it by his ear. The old trust was there even as we pushed: his eyes checking mine, mine answering I’ve got you.

“Tap if you need it,” I breathed. He didn’t. He rolled, I followed, the headboard thunked softly, and then I had him — hips pinned, wrist trapped, his free hand finding my bicep like an anchor.

Josh laughed quietly, delighted, eyes glassy under the lamplight. “Holy —” he whispered.

I slid my palm to Mario’s throat — open hand, steady pressure, not quite a real choke — and leaned in until my mouth was a breath from his. “Admit it,” I smirked, heat and play mixing. “I’m in charge here.”

Mario held my gaze for one, two, three beats. Then his mouth curved, and he let the tension go out of his shoulders. “Okay, okay,” he rasped, smiling up at me. “You got me.”

Josh shuddered. A burst of impossible color arced through the air between us, prismatic and weightless, as if somebody had shaken a snow globe full of starlight. Green and gold glitter exploded into the space and kept going, cascading over the bed, the dresser, our skin.

We both froze. The glitter landed and melted like frost.

Mario gasped and started to change. Lines I knew by heart softened and sharpened all at once, youth rolling back over him like a tide. He was back in his early twenties, yes, but carved, hotter than he ever was back then.  Shoulders round and full, waist tight, jaw clean. His grin went a little vacant, sweetly vapid, easy as summer. His clothes flickered — jeans and tee warping into slutty shorts and a sleeveless crop top. The stolen cap sat cocked on his head.

Heat punched through me in return. I felt it before I saw it — the swell — muscle waking for the first time in years.  My chest thickening, arms filling my sleeves until there were no sleeves. My button‑down blinked out and leather settled across my pecs. The clean straps of my harness. My slacks tightened into skinny jeans, black denim tucked into heavy combat boots.  I felt massive.

We stared at each other, new and not-new, the air humming with power.

Mario blinked up at me, young and gorgeous and a little empty-headed, eyes soft as a yes. I looked down at my own hands — bigger, surer — still braced around his wrist and resting at his throat.

Josh breathed, “Oh. Wow.” His grin hadn’t gone anywhere; if anything it had widened, dazzled. He looked ready to worship me.

“Okay,” I said, my voice lower than I remembered. “New rules.”

I stood, peeled off the boots, and let the room hear the weight of them hit the floor. The black denim followed — thumbs to belt loops, a quick shove — and my boxer briefs after that. I left the harness.  The lines looked right on me.

Mario trembled, excitement rolling through him like a shiver he couldn’t hide. I caught the waistband of his tiny shorts and tugged them down his thighs, then hooked my fingers in the neck of his crop and tore it down the middle. The sound roared in the quiet. He arched into the air, chest bright, eyes blown and sweet.

“You wanna get in on this?” I asked over my shoulder.

Josh was already in the chair, knees open, one hand working in his lap in a steady rhythm, eyes bright and fixed on us. He grinned, breathless. Before he could answer, Mario chuckled, voice gone velvet. “Nah,” he said, eyes on me. “The boy likes to watch.”

Josh just nodded, too entranced to argue.

I swung a leg over his hips, sat tall, and lifted—guiding him into me and seating myself on him, slow and deliberate, until I had all of him. Then I started to ride. My rhythm, my depth, my pace. Mario lay back and loved it, hands spread on the sheets, eyes huge, letting me do the work.

When he tried to say something clever, I clapped a hand gently over his mouth, eyes warm and unblinking.

“Shut up,” I told him, calm as a rule. “Just breathe.”

He stayed obedient, gripping the backs of my thighs without moving me an inch while I worked myself up and down on him—power bottoming, all control and no apology. Josh watched every second, knees wide, one hand working in his lap, knuckles pressed white to the arm of the chair, every inhale synced to ours.

“Now,” I said at last, voice low. “Finish.”

Mario obeyed, pleasure shuddering through him. The aftershock rolled into me; I followed with a rough breath and a full-body quake that left the room ringing.

I slid off him on a sigh, the harness creaking soft.

----------

Morning came in soft and ordinary, which made the glitter feel like a dream until I saw my reflection.  Huge and muscular and… when had I shaved my head?  It looked amazing.

The house smelled like coffee and something sweet. Mario hummed in the kitchen, bouncing between sink and counter in nothing but a black thong and Josh’s backwards cap. His new body made the cap look natural;.

“Better return the boy,” he said when I walked in, flipping a sponge at the sink. He wiggled his eyebrows. “And buy croissants on the way back… sir.”

I pretended not to love that last word. I pulled on fitted jeans and found my combat boots beside the bed, then tugged a fitted white tank over my head. It clung in all the right places — one flex and it'd be toast.

Mario looked me up and down shamelessly. “Unf… yeah…,” he moaned with approval.  "Drive safe."

He kissed my jaw and went back to tidying, thong flashing as he danced to his earbuds.

Josh was halfway human by the time I texted outside. He came down in joggers and an old hoodie of Mario's.  His hair was damp, his eyes bright. He slid into the passenger seat at glanced at me for approval.

“Morning,” I said.  "Keep the hoodie… Mario don't need sleeves."

“Morning,” he echoed, grinning despite himself. He buckled in and then just… looked at me. “You two are ridiculous,” he said finally. “How do you keep that kind of heat after being married that long?”

“It’s easy,” I said, laughing. “You gotta keep it fun.”

“You're both scary hot," he sighed.

“Yeah," I chuckled.  "My husband looks unfair in a crop top."

Traffic was fine. The city did its Sunday morning routine. Josh talked in fits and starts, like a guy who doesn’t want the ride to end: favorite diners, first week in the neighborhood, the gym he’s trying, the way a good playlist saves a bad day. He mentioned the cap once, sheepish.

“Keep the hoodie,” I repeated. “But Marios keeping the cap.”

“Honestly?” He glanced over, smiling. “It suits him.”

We turned onto his block. The building was old‑bones nice, three stories with a bay window and someone’s brave herb garden on the stoop. I idled at the hydrant and threw it in park.

Josh didn’t get out right away.

“Thank you,” he said. “For… last night. It felt safe. And hot. And… clear.”

“Good,” I said. I meant it. “You did great.”

He flushed like that word mattered. “You sure you don’t want to come up? I could make coffee.”

He’d be easy to like in daylight. But then… I pictured Mario at home, in a thong and a stolen cap, humming while he wiped up the kitchen.

“Nah,” I grunted, adjusting myself, and keeping my eyes on the windshield. “Mario’s waiting.”

Josh followed the motion with zero judgment and an appreciative grin. “Lucky man,” he said, popping the seatbelt. “Text me sometime. Or don’t. I’ll survive either way.” He touched my shoulder, a quick squeeze, then climbed out.

I watched him jog up the steps, hoodie riding up just enough to be rude, and for one stupid second I pictured following him, coffee and bagels and a replay in softer light. My hand drifted, rubbing absently over denim.

I let the engine idle long enough to pick a song, then pulled away from the curb and pointed the car home.

----------

By the time I pulled back into the driveway, the house was clean. Breakfast was gone. Glitter, mostly gone—just a glint here and there if you knew where to look. The dishwasher hummed. The washer thumped its steady churn. Something rich was already going low and slow in the crockpot, filling the place with goodness.

Mario met me in the doorway to the kitchen in an apron and nothing else but that black thong and the boy’s cap. He’d tied the apron too tight; it made his new waist look even tighter..

I stepped into his space until his back met the counter. “Good boy,” I said, quiet and close. It landed exactly the way I wanted—his breath hitched, his eyes went soft.

“Now,” I added, fingertip under the apron tie. “Lose this.”

He untied it fast, like he’d been waiting for the order. The apron hit the floor.  I sank to my knees on top of it, hands at his hips and taking my time. I worked him with my mouth until there was nothing tentative left in him — until he was thick and ready.

“Spence…” he breathed, hands lifting like they wanted to touch and thought better of it.

“Uh‑uh,” I said against him. “Hands behind you.”

He laced his fingers at the small of his back and held them there, shaking with the effort of not helping.

I stood, kissed him quick and rough, and then picked him up. New strength made it easy, but he made it easier.  Mario looped his arms around my neck with a helpless little laugh that went straight through me.

“Bedroom,” he growled.

I set him on the mattress and stripped the thong in one clean pull. The cap stayed. It looked too right to move. I grabbed cuffs from the nightstand, checked the buckles by touch, and took a breath.

“Wrists first,” I told him. He offered them up like a prayer. I buckled leather around flesh and snugged each strap to the headboard, just enough play to keep it kind. His ankles followed — one, then the other — spaced wide and sure. He didn't bother to test it – he knew I had him.

“Eyes on me,” I said, turning on some background music.

“Yes, sir.”

I let a palm smooth over his chest, slow. His breath hitched under my hand in time with the rhythm. Everything about him vibrated with anticipation — shoulders quivering, thighs flexing and relaxing against the sheets, mouth parted on a swallow he couldn’t quite finish.

“Good boy,” I said, letting it settle into him like heat. “House is clean. Dinner’s started. Now it’s time for you.”

He nodded once, a tiny, eager quake of his chin. “Yes, sir.”

I tightened one cuff a notch — the sound does something to both of us — and leaned in at his ear.

"Life's good," I whispered.  "Once you know what you want."