Operational Necessity
Summary: Frank Benson is exhausted, aching, and ready to collapse—until his wife whispers exactly the wrong thing into his ear. Between medals, uniforms, and whispered commands, a playful fantasy becomes a raw reminder that behind the hardened Lieutenant General is a man desperate to hold onto the family he never expected to have.
Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader
Warnings: Smut, Smut, smut
First, Second, Third and Fourth part here
Also read on Ao3
Something poked him in the spine. Sharp. Insistent. Repeated.
Frank grunted, burying his face deeper into the pillow to escape the assault. The room was dark, the house quiet, and the bed was a warm, soft cocoon he had absolutely no intention of leaving. He’d spent the entire day dealing with bureaucratic idiots and budget cuts that made about as much sense as a chocolate teapot, and his reserves of patience were running on fumes.
“Mmph,” he mumbled into the pillow, his brain trying to reboot. “There’re pickles in the fridge. The ones you like. The garlic ones.”
Behind him, you sighed.
“I don’t want pickles, Frank.”
Frank groaned, a long, rattling sound that started in his chest and ended in the mattress. He cracked one eye open, staring blindly at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was ungodly late. Or perhaps ungodly early. Either way, it was a time for sleeping, not for whatever domestic crisis was currently poking him in the kidney.
“Whatever it is,” he rasped, his baritone heavy with sleep and gravel, “it can wait until tomorrow.”
He shifted, trying to pull the duvet higher over his shoulder to block out the world. He was exhausted. A deep, bone-weary kind of tired that settled in his joints and made his eyelids feel like they were made of lead.
He didn’t have the strength to get up even if he wanted to.
The day had been absolute hell—a tribunal, a missed lunch, and a two-hour phone call with a Minister who didn’t understand the difference between a drone and a delivery van.
He just wanted to sleep.
He wanted to dissolve into the mattress and not resurface until the sun was up and the coffee was brewed.
“Sweetheart,” he mumbled, his voice slurring slightly. “Please. I’m very tired now. Very, very tired. I’m an old man. My back has seized up and my will to live is currently hovering at about ten percent. Let me sleep.”
He heard you shift behind him, the rustle of sheets loud in the quiet room.
“I don’t want to sleep,” you said, your voice dropping, suddenly right next to his ear.
“Go to sleep,” he grunted, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’ll build the crib. I’ll buy the pickles. I’ll do it tomorrow. Just… five minutes. Please.”
You leaned in closer, your breath tickling the back of his neck, your hand sliding over his waist, resting dangerously low on his hip.
“I want to have sex,” you whispered.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Frank didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.
For a split second, his brain actually stopped processing information entirely.
The exhaustion that had been weighing him down like a suit of lead armor? Vanished.
The aching in his back? Suddenly negligible.
He rolled over.
It wasn’t the sluggish, creaky roll of a tired man waking up. It was a sudden, fluid motion, fueled by a surge of adrenaline that had no business existing in a man who claimed to be on the verge of collapse.
He blinked his hazel eyes open, wide and alert in the dark, staring at you as if you’d just announced you’d won the lottery.
“You… what?” he asked, his voice suddenly clear, the sleep roughness vanishing to be replaced by a deep, intrigued rumble.
You bit your lip, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you watched him transform before your eyes. The grumpy, exhausted lieutenant general was gone. In his place was the man who had pinned you against a garage workbench earlier that afternoon.
“I said,” you murmured, tracing a finger down the center of his chest, over the soft cotton of his t-shirt, “that I want to have sex.”
Frank huffed, a sound of pure disbelief and rapidly awakening desire. He reached out, his hand finding your waist in the dark and pulling you flush against him. You could feel it—the heat radiating off him, the sudden hard press of his interest against your thigh.
“Why didn’t you say so before, woman?” he grumbled, but there was no annoyance in his tone now. Only warmth. And a deep, baritone vibration that you felt all the way down to your toes.
You giggled softly, scooting closer until your forehead rested against his. “I thought you were tired?”
Frank scoffed. The sound was dismissive, arrogant, and incredibly endearing.
“Tired?” He shook his head, his white hair mussed against the pillowcase. He leaned in, his hooked nose brushing against yours, his eyes searching yours with a sudden, fierce intensity.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that always made your breath hitch, “I’m not tired for that.”
He punctuated the words by rolling his hips against yours, a slow, deliberate grind that left absolutely no doubt as to how not-tired he was.
“I could be bleeding out,” he continued, his hand sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter, “on my deathbed, surrounded by weeping generals and a bagpiper playing ‘Amazing Grace,’ and if you climbed into that bed and whispered that in my ear? I would sit up. I would ask for a moment of privacy. And then I would absolutely wreck you.”
You laughed, a bright, happy sound that filled the quiet room, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m honest,” he countered, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled, the soft curve of his belly pressing comfortably against yours. “There is tired, and then there is you. They exist on completely different planes of existence.”
He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was slow and sweet and tasted of sleep and mint toothpaste. When he pulled back, his expression had turned serious again, though the warmth remained.
“How do you want me, then?” he asked quietly, the question rumbling through his chest like a distant storm. His hand moved from your waist to your hip, thumb tracing the bone there with a languid, possessive heat. “Quick and rough? Slow enough to make you forget your own name? Or are we feeling adventurous tonight?”
The question hung in the dark, heavy and inviting. But instead of answering with a touch or a demand, you felt your cheeks heat, a flush that had nothing to do with the warmth of the duvet. You bit your lip, sudden shyness overtaking the bravado that had driven you to poke him awake.
“I had a dream,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper against his skin.
Frank paused.
He leaned back just enough to see your face, the faint light from the window catching the curious tilt of his eyebrows. “A dream?”
You nodded, feeling ridiculous. It felt silly to say it aloud—to admit that your subconscious was just as obsessed with him as your waking hours were. But the way he was looking at you, so intent and patient, made the words spill out.
“We were… in your office,” you confessed.
Frank raised a white brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “My office? You mean the study? The one stacked with paperwork I’ve been ignoring for three weeks?”
You shook your head quickly, your face burning hotter. “No. Not the study. The real one.”
His smirk faded, replaced by a look of intrigue. He waited, his hand stilling on your hip.
“The army one,” you whispered. “The one at the base. The one I visited that one time to bring you lunch.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed immediately by a dark, sharp hunger.
He knew exactly which office you meant.
It was a place of cold efficiency, of gray carpets and harsh fluorescent lighting, of maps and monitors and the crushing weight of responsibility. It was a room where he wore a uniform and rank, where his voice commanded colonels and negotiated with politicians. It was the last place on earth associated with anything soft or sensual—which was exactly why, apparently, your dream-brain had decided it was the perfect setting for this.
“Did you now?” Frank murmured, his voice dropping an octave, turning into something that scraped deliciously against your nerves. “And what, pray tell, were we doing in a classified government facility?”
“You were working,” you said, your breath hitching as his hand began to move again, sliding under the hem of your sleep shirt to rest against the bare skin of your waist. “You were bent over the maps. Looking at screens. You had your glasses on.”
He hummed low in his throat. “And you?”
“I was on the desk,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “Right on top of the files. You… you pushed everything aside. The briefing papers, the coffee mug, the pens. You just swept it all onto the floor like it didn’t matter.”
Frank let out a soft, dark chuckle. “Very disobedient of me. General Benson neglecting his duty for a girl.”
“You weren’t neglecting it,” you argued, emboldened by the way his fingers were digging into your flesh. “You were… you were taking what you wanted. You told me to be quiet. You said the walls were thin, and that if anyone heard me, you’d stop, and I had to be good.”
His breath hitched.
The grip on your hip tightened bruisingly.
“And were you good?” he asked, his voice thick, rough.
“No,” you whispered. “I wasn’t. It was too much. You were… you were wearing the uniform. And the tie. And you looked so severe, so angry about the war, and then you just—” You broke off, burying your face in his neck. “You ruined me, Frank. On your desk. While people were walking right outside the door.”
Frank was silent for a long moment.
You could feel his heart hammering against yours, a rapid, heavy thud that belied his calm exterior.
The image had clearly done something to him. The idea of corrupting that sterile, orderly environment with the messy, desperate reality of you—the contrast of the uniform against your bare skin, the rank insignia catching the light while he buried himself inside you—it was a heady aphrodisiac.
He rolled onto his back, taking you with him, settling you astride his hips. The duvet slipped away, leaving you exposed to the cool air, but Frank’s hands were hot enough to burn.
“That’s a dangerous dream to have, love,” he murmured, his hands settling on your thighs, thumbs brushing the crease where your leg met your hip. “Because now I can’t get it out of my head.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s bloody terrible,” he said, but his eyes were dark, glazed with lust. He reached up, hooking his hand behind your neck, and pulled you down for a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, a desperate imitation of the frenzy you’d described. When he pulled back, his lips were red, his breathing ragged.
“Frank,” you breathed, grinding down against him, feeling the hard length of him through his pajama bottoms.
He patted your thigh, the gesture firm but lingering, his palm warm through the fabric of your sleep shirt. It was a dismissal, but not a rejection.
“Get off, love,” he murmured, his voice already shedding the drowsy roughness of sleep for something sharper, clearer.
You scrambled to obey, shifting your weight to the side and sliding off his hips to settle onto the cool mattress beside him. The loss of contact was immediate and disappointing, your body still humming with the residual energy of your confession, the heat of his hands lingering on your skin like a brand.
Frank sat up, the duvet pooling around his waist, exposing the soft, pale curve of his belly and the silver hair dusting his chest. He raked a hand through his sleep-mussed white hair, exhaling slowly through his nose as if steadying himself before a briefing. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight.
“Frank?” you asked, sitting up yourself, clutching the sheet to your chest. The sudden movement felt jarring. “Where are you going?”
He turned back to look at you, the moonlight from the window catching the sharp angle of his hooked nose and the glint of determination in his hazel eyes. He looked at you not like a husband woken from a nap, but like a man with a mission objective.
“I’m going to make your dream come true,” he said simply.
You blinked, confused. “Right now? It’s the middle of the night.”
“Soldiers don’t sleep when there’s a job to be done,” he replied, a dry, self-deprecating humor coloring his tone. He reached for his dressing gown hanging over the chair, but paused, his hand hovering over the terrycloth before letting it fall. “No. That won’t do.”
“What won’t do?”
He looked at you, and the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk that was part arrogance, part hunger. “The dream, sweetheart. You were very specific. I was wearing the uniform.”
You felt your breath catch. “You’re… you’re going to put it on? Now?”
“I am,” he said, heading for the closet. “Complete kit. Medals, cap, the lot. If I’m going to corrupt a government facility, I’m going to do it looking like the Queen’s own bloody nightmare.”
You watched him go, the sound of his footsteps receding down the hallway toward the study where he kept his military formal wear. Your heart began to hammer against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the image now burned into your mind.
Frank Benson in uniform.
It wasn’t as if you’d never seen it before.
There had been mess dinners, Remembrance Day services, the occasional ceremonial requirement. And yes, there had been times in the early, desperate days of your marriage when the uniform had stayed on longer than necessary—the tunic unbuttoned just enough to reveal the shirt beneath, the trousers unzipped in the back seat of a car after a reception.
But tonight… tonight felt different.
Tonight, after the vivid, Technicolor detail of your dream, the uniform felt like a costume for a role you were desperate for him to play.
The Lieutenant General.
The man who held life and death in his hands.
The man who commanded rooms and orchestrated drone strikes with a calm voice and a steely gaze. To have that man—the man of discipline and order—lose that control because of you? It was an aphrodisiac more potent than anything you could imagine.
You waited.
The minutes stretched out, taut and vibrating.
You shifted restlessly against the pillows, your body already reacting to the anticipation, your skin feeling tight and oversensitive. The quiet house felt different now, charged with a heavy, electric static.
Then, you heard the footsteps.
Heavy. Deliberate. The rhythmic tread of polished boots on hardwood.
You sat up straighter, clutching the duvet to your chin, your eyes fixed on the open bedroom door.
And then he was there.
Frank stopped in the doorway, framed by the dark hall behind him, and the sight of him hit you like a physical blow.
He was fully dressed. The No. Dress uniform, immaculate and terrifying. The dark, navy-blue tunic was fitted perfectly to his shoulders and torso, accentuating the broadness of his chest and the slight, solid softness of his middle.
The rows of medal ribbons glittered on his chest in the low light—colors of service and campaigns and history—and his actual medals, heavy gold and silver, hung with a weight that seemed to pull the very air in the room toward him.
His trousers were razor-sharp, the red stripe down the leg vivid, disappearing into highly polished black boots that you knew cost a fortune and caused his knees to ache. But he stood straight, spine rigid, shoulders back, radiating an authority that made your breath hitch in your throat.
His white hair was combed back severely, exposing the sharp lines of his face, and his eyes—those hazel eyes that could soften with sleep or harden with judgment—were locked on yours. They were dark now. Predatory.
He reached up and adjusted the peak of his cap, tucking it low over his brow, and the transformation was complete. The grumpy, cuddly husband was gone. In his place stood Lieutenant General Benson.
He didn’t speak.
He just stepped into the room, the scuff of his boots on the carpet loud in the silence.
“You’re staring,” he said. His voice was different—deeper, clipped, the baritone polished to a sheen like steel.
“I can’t… I can’t help it,” you whispered, your eyes roaming over the medals, the gold braiding on his shoulders, the gleam of the cap badge. “You look… intense.”
Frank walked to the foot of the bed, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, surveying you like a map he was about to redraw.
“Do I?” he murmured. “Good.”
He reached out, taking your ankle in a firm grip, and tugged. You slid down the mattress with a gasp, the duvet slipping away to leave you in your sleep shirt. He didn’t stop until you were flat on your back, your legs dangling over the edge, your feet resting on the cold, hard leather of his boots.
“Frank,” you breathed, looking up at him. The height difference, the rank difference, the sheer power radiating off him—it was dizzying.
“Sir,” he corrected automatically. His eyes bored into yours. “If we’re role-playing, girl, let’s do it properly.”
The word went straight to your core. “Yes… sir.”
He released your ankle and moved to stand beside you, his gloved hand—you hadn’t even noticed the gloves—resting on the mattress beside your head. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, the smell of starch, polished leather, and the faint, lingering scent of his cologne enveloping you.
“You told me you were on the desk,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in your chest. “That I pushed the briefing papers aside. That I made you keep quiet.”
You nodded, your heart pounding so hard you thought he might hear it. “Yes, sir.”
He hummed, a dark, considering sound.
“We don’t have the desk. Or the briefing papers. But we have the uniform. And we have the order.”
He straightened up, his gloved hand moving to the buttons of his tunic. He undid them slowly, one by one, the movement precise and practiced, revealing the crisp white dress shirt underneath. He didn’t take the tunic off, though. He just opened it, leaving it hanging loose, the medals clinking softly with the movement.
“Sit up,” he commanded.
You scrambled to obey, your movements clumsy with urgency.
Frank reached for the hem of your sleep shirt and pulled it over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. You were bare to him now, the cool air raising gooseflesh on your skin, your nipples tightening under his heavy gaze.
He didn’t touch you immediately. He just looked.
“God,” he muttered, his gaze tracing the curve of your breasts, the swell of your belly, the way your thighs were pressed together in a desperate attempt to alleviate the ache between them. “You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Ruining my career with your body.”
“It’s not ruining if it’s consensual, sir,” you couldn’t help but quip, trembling.
He huffed a short, dark laugh. “Smart mouth.”
He gripped your chin, his leather-clad fingers rough against your skin, and tilted your head back. His kiss was punishing—hard, demanding, tasting of mint and authority. He kissed you like he was claiming territory, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to stake a claim that left you dizzy and breathless.
When he pulled away, you were panting.
“On your knees,” he ordered, stepping back just enough to give you space to move. “On the floor. Facing the bed.”
Your eyes widened. The carpet was soft, but the implication… “Frank?”
“Sir,” he corrected sharply. “And yes. On the floor. Now.”
The tone left no room for argument.
You slid off the mattress, sinking to your knees on the carpet. You turned to face him, your hands resting nervously on your thighs. You were eye-level with his belt buckle now, with the sharp crease of his trousers, the gleam of his boots.
Frank moved closer. He stood directly in front of you, a towering wall of wool and gold and authority. He reached out, resting one gloved hand on top of your head, his fingers threading through your hair.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Perfect.”
He only stroked your head for a moment, his gloved fingers a paradox of rough leather and gentle intent against your scalp.
It was a fleeting caress, a silent approval of your submission before his hand shifted, fingers tangling into your hair. He tightened his grip just enough to pull lightly, tilting your head back until you were forced to look up at him, trapped between the command in his eyes and the dizzying height of his rank.
“Go ahead,” he murmured, the baritone rough-edged and dark. “Take it out. Don’t make me ask twice.”
You obeyed eagerly, your trembling fingers finding the gleaming brass of his belt buckle. The metal clicked loudly in the quiet room, a stark, mechanical sound that made your breath hitch.
You undid the clasp with frantic urgency, your knuckles brushing against the coarse wool of his uniform trousers and the solid warmth beneath. The button followed, then the zipper, the rasp of the teeth lowering sounding obscene in the silence.
You reached inside, parting the fabric of his boxers, and freed him.
His cock was heavy in your hand, hot and thick, weighing down your palm. He was only half-hard, flushed a deep, angry color that contrasted sharply with the pristine white of his dress shirt and the dark navy of his open tunic. You could feel the pulse of blood beneath the velvety skin, the latent power of him waiting to be coaxed to life. The smell of him—intoxicating, masculine, mixed with the scent of starch and leather—went straight to your head.
A soft whimper escaped your lips, born of sheer need and reverence. Without thinking, you leaned in, your tongue peeking out to taste the head, desperate for a drop of him, desperate to feel him on your tongue.
“Ah.”
The sound was sharp, a single syllable of reprimand.
Before your lips could even make contact, Frank’s hand in your hair tightened brutally, dragging you back. The sting on your scalp made you gasp, your eyes flying up to meet his. He loomed over you, a monolith of authority, his expression unreadable in the shadow cast by his cap, but his eyes were cold and hard.
“And where exactly,” he drawled, his voice dangerously quiet, “did I say you could put that in your mouth?”
You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“I—I just thought—”
“You didn’t think,” he cut you off, his tone clipped and brooking no argument. He shifted his grip, tilting your head back further, forcing you to arch your neck and look at him. “You acted on impulse. Like a child who doesn’t know the rules yet.”
You swallowed hard, your mouth dry. “I’m sorry, sir. I just wanted to taste you.”
A dark, humorless smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t care what you want. I care about what you’re told.”
He leaned down slightly, bringing his face closer to yours, the polished leather of his boots creaking with the shift in weight. The gold braiding on his shoulders glinted in the low light, a reminder of the power he held.
“Permission is not a suggestion, sweetheart,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips. “It is a bloody order. And I don’t recall giving you permission to put my cock in your mouth. Did I?”
“No, sir,” you whispered, tears of shame pricking at the corners of your eyes.
“No,” he agreed, his thumb coming up to trace your lower lip, the leather of his glove dragging against your soft skin. “You see, in my line of work, acting without authorization gets people killed. It ruins operations. It destroys careers.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, the gravity of his persona pressing down on you.
“And in this bedroom,” he added softly, “it means you don’t get what you want until I decide you’ve earned it.”
He released your hair then, letting his hand drop to his side, leaving you feeling bereft and exposed on your knees.
He didn’t step back, though.
He stood his ground, his cock still hardening in your grip, demanding attention you weren’t allowed to give yet.
“Use your hand,” he commanded, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low rumble of instruction. “Get me ready. But if your tongue so much as dares to touch me before I say so… you won’t be sitting down for a week.”
You nodded quickly, your hand moving tentatively along his shaft.
You stroked him slowly, feeling him grow thicker and longer under your touch, the veins becoming more pronounced, the skin heating until it burned against your palm.
“Eyes up,” Frank ordered, his gaze boring into yours. “Don’t look at what you’re doing. Look at me. I want to see exactly how desperate you are.”
You kept your eyes locked on his, your wrist moving with a steady rhythm, your arousal pooling between your thighs at the sheer control he exerted. He watched you like a hawk, his expression stern, his jaw set, the only betrayal of his own desire being the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath the medal ribbons.
“Good girl,” he murmured, the praise washing over you like a physical touch. “Just like that. Show me you can follow a simple order.”
Your single hand moved along the length of him, but Frank made a low, dissatisfied noise in the back of his throat—a gravelly rumble that vibrated through your very bones.
“Both hands,” he commanded, his voice clipping the words short and sharp. “Surely you’re capable of multitasking, girl. Or do I need to call in a support team?”
“No, sir,” you whispered, your breath hitching as you obeyed.
You brought your second hand up, wrapping it around the thick base of his shaft, joining the first near the head.
The contrast was stark and undeniable: your pale, small fingers against the angry, flushed red of him, the soft skin of your palms against the iron-hard strength of his arousal. You couldn’t encompass him fully, not even with both hands; he was simply too thick, too substantial, the heavy weight of him forcing your fingers to stretch wide to accommodate his girth.
Frank looked down.
The angle allowed him a perfect view of the tableau you presented—the top of your head, your upturned, flushed face, and your hands working dutifully between the pristine press of his uniform trousers. He saw the way your knuckles strained, the way the medals on his chest glinted in the low light as his breathing deepened, the visual dichotomy of the Lieutenant General fully dressed and completely undone by your touch.
It was a power trip, certainly.
But watching you—seeing the physical evidence of your desire to please him, the way your hands worshipped him—was doing things to his composure that the threat of a court-martial never could. His cock throbbed in your grip, growing heavier, the skin tightening until the veins mapped a distinct, urgent pattern along the shaft.
“Getting dry,” he noted, his tone rough, detached, as if commenting on a logistical error in a supply chain. “Fix it.”
You blinked, confused for a split second, before the heat in his eyes clarified the order. You paused your stroking, bringing one hand to your mouth and gathering as much saliva as you could, letting it pool on your tongue before spitting it deliberately into your other palm.
The sound was lewd, wet, and shockingly loud in the quiet bedroom.
Frank’s breath hitched audibly.
“Good,” he muttered, the baritone roughening. “Now use it.”
You slicked the moisture over him, spreading it with trembling fingers, and the friction changed instantly—became smoother, hotter, wetter. Your hands glided more easily now, twisting in counter-rhythm, sliding from the weeping tip all the way down to the coarse hair at the base.
And as you worked him, you finally let yourself look.
Really look.
It wasn’t something you often voiced—it felt absurd, maybe a bit crude, to compliment a man on his genitalia in the middle of the act—but in the quiet sanctity of your own mind, it was the truth.
Your husband had the most beautiful penis you had ever seen.
It wasn’t just that it was him, the man you loved, the father of your child. It was the aesthetic of it, the sheer masculine perfection of it that seemed to belong on a marble statue rather than a sixty-something lieutenant general with bad knees. It was thick, a heavy, imposing column of flesh that commanded respect before it even demanded pleasure. The color was a deep, burnished rose, darkening at the head to a feverish purple that made your mouth water, the skin there impossibly smooth and velvety in contrast to the steely hardness beneath.
Even the shape of it was elegant—the flared, defined ridge of the crown, the way the shaft tapered just slightly before flaring again at the base, heavy and grounding.
You loved the weight of it in your hands, the way it felt alive, pulsing with a heartbeat that seemed stronger than the one in his chest. You loved the way it looked emerging from the dark, tailored uniform, a flagrant, defiant display of life amidst the rigid formality of the Service Dress.
And God, the way it smelled. Clean skin, salt, and that underlying musk that was uniquely Frank. It made your head spin, made your cunt clench around nothing as your hands continued their steady, worshipful glide.
He was looming over you, imposing and severe, the cap casting a shadow over his eyes, but you could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his nostrils flared slightly with every drag of your thumbs over the sensitive slit.
He was majestic.
“Enjoying the view?” Frank murmured, his voice dropping an octave, catching you staring. He knew, of course he did. He could read you better than you read yourself.
“Yes, sir,” you breathed, not bothering to deny it. Your thumbs brushed over the head again, smearing the pre-come that had beaded there, mixing it with your spit. “It’s… perfect.”
A huff of amusement escaped him, dark and warm. “Flattery will get you everywhere, love.”
He shifted his stance, the leather of his boots creaking, and reached down to brush his gloved thumb over your cheekbone. The leather was cool against your flushed skin.
“But you’re still thinking with your eyes and not your orders,” he chided softly, though there was no real heat in it—only a thick, heavy lust. “Keep going. I want to see those hands moving until I tell you to stop. And if you dare look away from me again, I’ll make you regret it.”
Your panties were soaked, a damp, clinging reminder of how thoroughly he had dismantled your defenses without even touching you below the waist.
A dull, insistent throb had taken up residence between your legs, aching so badly your hips shifted restlessly on your heels.
You wanted him to sweep you up, toss you onto the mattress like a ragdoll, and bury himself inside you until you couldn’t remember your own name. You wanted the quick, rough fuck you had originally poked him awake for. The one that would end in sweat and sleep and silence.
Instead, you were on your knees, worshipping a cock you weren’t even allowed to taste yet, while Lieutenant General Benson looked down at you with the detached scrutiny of a man inspecting a weapon.
He was in absolutely no rush.
Frank stood there, immovable as a statue, the cap casting a dark shadow over his eyes, the medals on his chest rising and falling with a slow, measured rhythm. He looked terrifyingly composed. If he was feeling the same desperate urgency that was currently making your thighs tremble, he was doing a masterful job of hiding it behind a wall of iron-clad discipline.
You should have lied.
That was the dark, whispering thought that niggled at the back of your mind as your hands continued their slow, agonizing glide over his shaft.
You should have kept your mouth shut.
You should have just told him you were having contractions. Or that the baby was doing gymnastics on your bladder and the only cure was an orgasm. Or that your hips were aching so badly you needed a “medical intervention.”
You were pregnant, for God’s sake.
It was the ultimate Get Out of Jail Free card.
The world’s most convenient alibi.
You could have claimed that the baby demanded sex immediately for health reasons, and Frank—an anxious, over-protective father-to-be—would have likely stripped you naked and folded you in half before you could finish the sentence.
But no. You had to be honest. You had to share your dream. You had to invite the Lieutenant General into the bedroom.
And now you were paying for it.
“Your mind is wandering,” Frank murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rasp that cut through the haze of your arousal. “I can see it. You’re not looking at me anymore.”
You snapped your eyes back to his face instantly, your heart kicking up a frantic rhythm. “Sorry, sir.”
His eyes narrowed behind the shadow of the cap visor. “What’s going on in that head of yours? You look… regretful.”
Regretful didn’t even cover it. You were seconds away from faking a cramp just to break the standoff.
“Just…” You bit your lip, your hands stuttering slightly on his cock. “Thinking that maybe I should have just asked for a quickie, sir. Instead of… all this.”
A dark eyebrow arched. “All this? You mean the fulfillment of your own fantasy?”
“I wanted to come,” you confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I wanted you to fuck me and let me sleep. This is… this is torture.”
Frank huffed—a short, dry sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. He shifted his weight, the leather of his boots creaking, and the hand in your hair tightened, tilting your head back further.
“Torture,” he repeated, rolling the word around his mouth like he was tasting it. He looked down at you, his gaze drifting from your flushed face to your heaving chest, then lower, to the way your thighs were pressed together in a futile attempt to alleviate the pressure. “You’re complaining because I’m making you work for it?”
“Yes, sir,” you whispered, not daring to lie.
He hummed, a low, thoughtful vibration.
“You see, in my experience, things that come quickly tend to be forgotten instantly. But things you have to earn?” His gloved thumb dragged over your lower lip, pressing down slightly until your mouth parted. “Those you remember.”
His hips jerked forward just a fraction—a tiny, involuntary thrust that betrayed his own fraying control. His cock slipped through your slick grip, the head bumping against your cheek, leaving a smear of wetness on your skin.
“Besides,” he added, his voice dropping an octave, thickening with arousal, “I like seeing you like this. On your knees. Desperate. It suits you.”
You whimpered, the sound pathetic even to your own ears. The damp heat between your legs was unbearable now, your clit pulsing with every beat of your heart. You looked up at him, at the stern set of his jaw, the silver glint of hair, the imposing rows of medals, and felt a sudden, desperate surge of inspiration.
If you couldn’t wait for him to give in, maybe you had to force his hand using the only weapon you had left: his weakness for his unborn child.
“I just… I’m worried about the baby, sir,” you said, injecting a tremble into your voice that was only half-acted.
Frank stilled. The hand in your hair paused, his grip loosening slightly. The Lieutenant General vanished instantly, replaced by the anxious father. “What? Is something wrong? Are you in pain?”
You nodded quickly, looking up at him with wide, watery eyes. “The doctor said… stress isn’t good for the baby. And I’m very stressed right now, sir. My heart rate is up. I’m tense.”
You shifted on your knees, spreading your thighs slightly to let him see the flush there, the way your body was trembling.
“I need… relief,” you whispered, letting your voice break just enough to sound fragile. “For the baby’s sake. I need you to… regulate me. Immediately.”
Frank stared at you.
He looked at your tear-stained lashes, your heaving chest, the way your hands were still clutching his cock—hard and desperate. He was a smart man. A brilliant tactician. He knew exactly what you were doing. He knew you were manipulating him using his own child as a tactical diversion.
But as he looked down at you—disheveled, wet, his wife in military ruins—he found he didn’t care.
“Regulate you,” he repeated slowly, his voice dropping into a register that made your bones hum. “Is that the medical term we’re using now?”
“Yes, sir,” you breathed, daring to stroke him a little faster, feeling the heavy throb of him against your palm. “It’s urgent, sir. Operational necessity.”
Frank let out a sharp exhale, a sound that was half-groan, half-curse. His control snapped with an audible click, like a breaking wire. The stoic facade of the Lieutenant General cracked, revealing the hungry, desperate man underneath.
“Operational necessity,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re a menace. You’re going to be the death of me.”
He pulled your hands away from his cock—ignoring your whimper of loss—and gripped your upper arms, hauling you up from the floor with a strength that made your head spin.
“Get on the bed,” he growled, the baritone rough enough to scrape. “On your back. Legs apart. If we’re treating this as a medical emergency, sweetheart, we’re going to do it properly.”
You scrambled onto the mattress, heart racing in triumph, but you didn’t make it far. Frank was on you the second your back hit the sheets, his weight pressing you into the mattress, the rough wool of his trousers abrading your skin. He didn’t give you time to adjust; he shoved your knees up and apart with bruising force, settling himself between your thighs.
He didn’t wait for you to settle. The urgency of your “medical emergency” had clearly infected him, stripping away the last of his patience. Frank reached down, his hand still gloved in the pristine white leather of his dress uniform, and caught the waistband of your soaked panties.
You gasped, expecting him to pull them down, to undress you with the slow reverence he usually favored. But this was a man acting on operational necessity.
He curled his fingers into the fabric, holding it taut against your hip, and brought his other hand to his mouth. With a sharp, practiced motion, he gripped the tip of the glove’s index finger between his teeth and ripped the leather off, spitting it onto the floor with a wet, guttural sound.
The sight of him—Lieutenant General Benson, stripped of decorum, baring his teeth—sent a violent shiver down your spine.
“Fuck,” he muttered, the baritone thick and ragged.
He didn’t bother removing your panties.
He didn’t have the time.
Instead, he hooked his bare fingers into the crotch of the damp fabric and yanked it aside, exposing you to the cool air. You were slick, swollen, and absolutely dripping, your body’s betrayal evident in the way your thighs gleamed.
“Jesus,” he hissed. “Stressed, indeed.”
He reached out, not giving you a moment to brace, and sank two fingers straight into your heat.
You cried out, your back arching off the mattress, your hands flying to his shoulders to grip the heavy wool of his tunic. He curled his fingers immediately, finding that spot with unerring, military precision, and dragged a harsh moan from your throat.
“So wet for me,” he growled, his eyes fixed on where his fingers disappeared inside you. “Greedy little thing.”
He added a third finger without warning, stretching you wide, burning through the resistance.
It was a punishment and a reward all at once. He pumped his hand, thrusting hard enough to make your breasts bounce, to make the medals on his chest clink rhythmically against the fabric. He was stretching you properly, making sure you could take him, forcing your body to accommodate the sheer size of him.
“Frank—Sir—”
“Hush,” he snapped, though his voice was wrecked. “Take it. You wanted to be regulated? You’re getting regulated.”
He scissored his fingers, curling and twisting, tearing whimpers from your lips until you were trembling on the edge of madness. It was too much, the stretch too sharp, the friction too perfect, and just when you thought you might scream, he pulled his fingers out.
The loss was devastating. You felt empty, clenching around nothing, aching to be filled again.
Frank didn’t leave you empty for long.
He reached for his trousers, shoving them down just enough to free himself, his cock springing out heavy and angry. He ripped the other glove off with his teeth, the leather joining its twin on the floor, and then he was looming over you, a wall of muscle and heat and authority.
He hooked your knees over his elbows, folding you nearly in half, and lined himself up.
“Eyes on me,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rasp.
You locked eyes with him, watching the way his jaw tightened, the way the silver hair at his temples gleamed in the low light. He pushed inside you in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
You gasped, your head falling back, your nails digging into the dense fabric of his tunic. He was thick, hot, and overwhelming, stretching you even more than his fingers had. He didn’t stop until he was fully seated, his pelvic bone flush against yours, the rough wool of his uniform trousers scratching the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.
“God,” he choked out, his head dropping forward, his forehead resting against yours. “You feel… bloody incredible.”
He started to move.
At first, his thrusts were slow—deep, grinding strokes that seemed to touch the bottom of your soul. He was savoring the heat of you, the way your walls fluttered around him, the wet, slick sounds of your bodies joining. He was in no rush now; he had you exactly where he wanted you.
“You take me so well,” he murmured against your mouth, his breath hot and heavy. “Like you were made for me. Like this body was built specifically to take my cock.”
You whined, high and broken, your hips lifting to meet his, desperate for more friction. “Please, sir—harder—”
Frank grunted, the sound vibrating through your chest. He obliged. The slow, deliberate pace shattered into something ragged and desperate. He pulled out almost entirely and slammed back in, setting a rhythm that was fast and punishing. The bed frame creaked, the headboard hitting the wall with a dull thud that matched the cadence of his thrusts.
He was fucking you in full uniform.
The medals on his chest rattled with every movement, a chaotic jingling that underscored the lewdness of the act. The cap was still on his head, slightly askew, casting shadows over his eyes, making him look like a stranger—like a commander taking what was due to him. The contrast was dizzying: the rigid discipline of the Service No. Dress uniform against the primal, messy reality of sex.
Your body tightened, the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter with every drag of his cock against your inner walls. “I’m gonna come—Frank, please—”
“Come,” he growled, his hand fisting in the sheets beside your head. “Come all over me. Let me feel you.”
His voice, dark and commanding, was your undoing. The orgasm slammed into you with the force of a physical blow. Your back arched, a silent scream tearing from your throat, your cunt clamping down on him like a vice. You shattered, your vision whiting out, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over you.
Frank groaned, a long, broken sound, as your spasming milked him. He thrust into you twice more, deep and hard, and then he was following you over the edge. He buried himself to the hilt and held himself there, his hips jerking as he filled you, his cock pulsing inside you, marking you as his from the inside out.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight heavy and grounding, his chest heaving against yours. The smell of sex, sweat, and starch filled the air, thick and intoxicating.
You lay there for a long time, wrapped in his arms, listening to the frantic thud of his heart slowing down. The room was quiet now, save for your ragged breathing. The uniform, once so terrifying and imposing, was now just a collection of rough fabrics and hard medals digging into your skin.
Eventually, Frank stirred.
He pushed himself up, his movements slow and heavy, and looked down at you. His hazel eyes were soft now, the harshness gone, replaced by a warm, lazy affection.
“Alright?” he murmured, brushing a stray hair away from your forehead.
“Better than alright,” you whispered.
He huffed a soft laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple before he pulled away. He sat up on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and began the arduous process of undressing. It wasn’t the efficient striptease of a younger man; it was the methodical shedding of armor.
He unbuttoned the tunic with care, sliding it off his shoulders and hanging it over the chair so it wouldn’t wrinkle. The medal ribbons glinted one last time before he turned away. Next came the tie, then the shirt, peeled away to reveal the soft, pale skin of his back, the slight curve of his spine, the dusting of silver hair that narrowed down to his waist.
He stood up to remove the boots and trousers, bending with a groan that spoke of aging joints and a long day, until he was standing in just his boxers and socks. He stripped those off too, leaving him bare.
He was older, yes. There was a softness to his belly, lines etched around his eyes, silver hair covering his chest. But to you, he was the most beautiful thing in the world. He was Frank.
He turned back to you, his body relaxed, the hardness of the General completely gone.
He helped you clean up with a warm, damp cloth from the ensuite, his touch gentle and reverent, wiping away the sticky mess with a tenderness that made your heart ache.
When he was done, he pulled the duvet back up, tucking you in before sliding into bed beside you. He didn’t hesitate; he pulled you close immediately, wrapping his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. You curled into him, your back to his chest, his body heat enveloping you like a blanket.
Silence settled over the room, comfortable and safe.
You were drifting on the edge of sleep, heavy and sated, when you felt him press a kiss to your shoulder. His lips were soft, his breath warm against your skin.
“I was thinking,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in your ear.
“Hmm?” you hummed, too tired to open your eyes.
His hand came to rest on your belly, splaying wide across the swell where his child grew. He rubbed his thumb gently over the fabric of your sleep shirt.
“I hope it’s a girl,” he whispered, so softly you almost didn’t hear him. “A little girl. A mini-you.”
A lump formed in your throat, sudden and sharp. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he insisted quietly. “I want a girl with your eyes. Your laugh. Your spirit.” He paused, his thumb stroking you slowly. “I want to spoil her rotten. I want to be the old man she runs to when she falls off her bike. The one who buys her the ponies I never bought for myself. I want to spend the rest of my time making sure she knows she’s the most important thing in the world.”
Your eyes burned.
You turned in his arms, burying your face in his chest to hide the sudden tears that pricked at your lashes.
“Don’t say things like that, Frank,” you whispered, your voice thick.
He tightened his hold on you, but he didn’t argue. He didn’t try to brush it off with a joke or a pragmatic reassurance. He just pressed another kiss to your hair, his lips lingering.
“Why not?” he asked softly, though he already knew the answer.
“Because,” you said, your voice cracking. “Because it sounds like a goodbye. Like you’re planning on leaving before they even get here.”
Frank stayed quiet for a long moment. The silence stretched out, heavy and unspoken, filled with the truth you were both trying to ignore. He was old. He was a man who had lived a lifetime of war and stress, a man whose heart had already beat longer and harder than most. You both knew the math. You both knew that the time he had left to spoil a daughter was a finite, dwindling resource.
But he didn’t let go.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he lied, because he loved you.
And because you loved him, you let yourself believe him.
“Go to sleep, Frank,” you whispered, closing your eyes.
“Okay, love,” he murmured. “Okay.”
He stayed awake for a while longer, listening to your breathing even out, feeling the steady rhythm of your heart against his. He kept his hand on your belly, guarding the life inside, the Lieutenant General standing watch over the only peace he had ever known.
Eventually, sleep enveloped you both again, pulling you down into the dark, where there were no goodbyes, no uniforms, and no clocks—just the two of you, holding on as tight as you could.
