Note: this 4k-word story is intended for readers 18+. It contains an m+m pairing featuring a transmasc MC. Content tags/warnings include militaristic SFF themes, age gap, D/s, light S&M, & orgasm control.

As Corporal Ezra Grant mulls over the possibilities of how best to cap off a rough week of training exercises and combat drills, he enters his quarters and finds a sylvan sitting in his den. His hand falls to the pistol at his hip as the sylvan stands and salutes.

“Apologies, Corporal,” the sylvan says, holding his hand rigid in position. “But I was sent by the requisitions office.”

A spark of memory drops Grant’s hand from his gun belt. “At ease,” he says.

The sylvan drops his salute, and if he hadn’t greeted the Corporal first, Grant would have assumed he was a civilian. His day clothes are slack and inviting, with a fully parted neckline of white silk showing off the planes of his auburn-tufted chest. Grant follows a slash of darker hair down the center of the sylvan’s lean stomach where it disappears into loose gym joggers. Grant cuts his eyes to the sylvan’s face—freckled, with round eyes and a short nose, framed in wild auburn curls.

The man’s antlers are short and look like they’d feel softer than Grant’s curved, ram-like horns. Short antlers on a sylvan would usually denote a faun, but standing before the Corporal is a grown man.

A new man, Grant realizes. His cock throbs in remembrance of the quartermate request he’d dutifully sent to the requisitions team, weeks ago now.

Sergeant Dright was big on atypical forms of recreation, so unmanaged conflict wouldn’t trickle down and “rust the ranks,” as she called it. She’d come up with the quartermate system as a result. High ranking officers filled out a personality profile, along with their recreational “needs”. Then it would be filed away in a database that would compare against other submissions, until a close-enough match was found.

To Grant, the Sergeant’s quartermate campaign was a glorified dating service. Nevertheless, he’d been serious when marking his preferences on the questionnaire. At some point during the process, he’d imagined what kind of person would fulfill his specific requirements, and when every question had been painstakingly answered, he’d felt profound futility by the time he hit submit. Grant’s well aware of his unique needs—part of his convenient reasons for “never having time” to date—and though he and the Sergeant had always gotten on well, he’d expected a terse phone call, an inevitable reprimand, over the specificities outlined in his request.

But none came, and the Corporal had promptly forgotten about the whole thing.

Grant steps further into his quarters, sizing the sylvan up. “Were the conditions explained to you?”

The sylvan nods. “Yes, Corporal.”

Grant’s hands fall to his gun belt’s buckle, unfastening it so he can lay it carefully on an empty side table. “In full detail?”

“Affirmative…” The sylvan barely hesitates before he adds, “Sir.”

“Good,” Grant murmurs, eyeing the sylvan with a closer perspective. “Name and rank, soldier.”

“Aden Bastille, sir,” the sylvan says. “Private First Class, sir.”

A little heavy on the honorifics, but Grant appreciates the respect emanating from the sylvan. “Do you have your file?”

“Everything was sent over this morning via InterLink, sir,” Private Bastille says.

That explains the surprise, Grant thinks as he pulls up the comm device on his wrist. InterLink was the communications network for the military, and he was terrible at keeping up with every notification. He usually checks them at night before bed, rarely during the day, and especially not on a day like today where he’d been stuck running training drills.

True to the Private’s words, there are unopened documents and messages waiting in the Corporal’s inbox pertaining to REQ#46234—Grant’s quartermate requisition. Among the attachments are Private Bastille’s military file. Grant opens it first, scanning the fields of information until something catches his eyes.

“Voluntary transfer,” Grant reads, before he peers at the sylvan again. “As of a week ago.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Trouble in your platoon, soldier?”

“No, sir,” Private Bastille says, his gaze averted.

Grant hadn’t expected an affirmative answer anyway. Privates with disciplinary issues didn’t usually make First Class. Furthermore, Bastille’s record is clean, with no demerits since the initiation of his service.

Grant switches to one of the other attachments—the quartermate match results, where pie charts funneled by various statistics scroll into view. The results have compared their spectrum of quatermate preferences. Grant’s memory shuffles as he skims the things he’d scored high, but it’s the final score that has the Corporal more curious than anything else.

“Ninety-seven percent match,” Grant reads.

“I’m told it’s the highest on record,” Private Bastille intones, but with a quick look from Grant, he adds, “Sir.”

Grant locks his comm device with a swipe of his broad thumb and postures as if he’s ordering around new recruits. “On your knees, Private.”

The sylvan drops in perfect, disciplined form, movements silent as his knees hit the oblong rug of Grant’s den. His wrists meet parallel at his back, but he holds his head up high, eyes trained on the space in front of him.

Grant steps closer, reaching for the one of the sylvan’s antlers, tracing it with his thumb. His assumption had been correct—though it was undoubtedly bone, it felt more like supple wood grain beneath his fingers. His own horns were hardened, though beginning to brittle with his age.

“Legs spread, Private,” Grant says, taking another circling step as he watches Private Bastille’s reaction. His knees part as fluidly as the material of his pants, and nothing changes in his face.

“The quartermate results mentioned exceptions,” Grant says. “The three percent that didn’t match, I assume?”

Private Bastille lets out a sharp breath. “Stipulations, sir.”

Grant’s lip curls at the suggestive insubordination. He positions himself in front of Private Bastille, takes one of the sylvan’s antlers in his hand and yanks him forward, while pressing the toe of his boot against the sylvan’s crotch.

“Go on, then,” Grant says impassively. “Give me your stipulations, soldier.”

The strong hold, the awkward position, has Private Bastille breathing heavier. “You scored humiliation on the upper end in your request sir—I, as well—but I’d prefer if you keep it focused away from my appearance.”

Grant hums his agreement. “What else?”

“You scored acts of worship quite low,” the sylvan says. “I find no fault with your other limits, but I would humbly request you reconsider that one, sir.”

Grant’s eyes widen. The antler in his hand feels hot and slick under his prolonged touch, so he releases it. He keeps his boot where it is as Private Bastille straightens his posture.

“Is this something you’d care to demonstrate, Private?” Grant angles his boot so that it presses harder. He imagines the imprint of the patterned rubber sole, how good it would look on the sylvan’s freckled skin.

“Please, sir,” Private Bastille murmurs. “I’m honored to serve you.”

Words have never affected Grant like this. This is everything he’d imagined when filling out the requisition, but he’d hardly place any bets on his preferences coming to fruition. And even though he said he didn’t want acts of worship, someone to fawn over him—the way the sylvan surrenders himself has Grant ready to ruin him.

“Aden,” Grant says aloud, trying out the Private’s first name. The sylvan’s eyes lift to him, puzzled. “Is that what you’d prefer I call you?”

“I don’t prefer a name at all, sir,” Aden says.

Grant smiles. “You prefer boy, then.”

“If it pleases you, sir,” Aden says.

“It does,” Grant says, pulling his boot back. He unhooks the throat clasp of his uniform’s shirt and looks down at the sylvan kneeling below him. “On your feet.”

Aden rises gracefully. Grant finds it curious that he has the discipline of a soldier but doesn’t move like one, not like the Corporal is used to. He imagines Private Bastille in close combat, limbs lithe and weightless on his feet. That image does things to Grant, too. He’s never thought of sparring in that way, but the thought of pinning Aden to a training mat has him hard.

“Strip,” Grant commands.

Aden pulls the open shirt over his head, and it catches on his antlers before he unhooks it. Grant catches the flash of embarrassment and he suppresses laughter. The sylvan would soon be very aware of his body if Grant had anything to do with it.

Aden unties the drawstring of his joggers and pushes them down. Rich mahogany curls flower across his lower abdomen, spreading to his thighs and between his legs. Wherever his skin runs bare, it’s still splattered with freckles, some so dark they look like flecks of ink. He toes his bottoms into a pile with his shirt, and waits with loose fists at his sides.

Grant approaches, devouring Aden with his eyes. His gaze drops to Aden’s cock, already hard. Upon further inspection, Grant sees how wet he is, too, the sylvan’s curls glistening with his arousal.

Grant rakes the fingers of one hand through Aden’s forest of body hair. Aden flinches at the initial contact, then shivers when Grant’s fingers move lower and squeeze his cock.

“Who owns this, Private?”

“You, sir,” Aden says between stilted breaths.

“Say it in full.”

“Corporal Ezra Grant owns my cock.”

“Good boy,” Grant says, releasing Aden and taking a step back. “I believe I was offered a demonstration.”

Grant tears himself away from the willing sylvan standing in his den and heads into his small kitchenette. Beneath the sink are cleaning supplies, and Grant digs out a clump of fresh white rags and military-issued boot shine kit.

He drops the items on the floor next to Aden, unceremoniously, standing at the ready with his feet aligned with his shoulders. He watches Aden glance between kit and Grant’s boots as if unsure of what to do next.  

“I’d have you use your tongue,” Grant chirps. “But I’ve been all over base today.”

That springs Aden’s body to action, his legs bending as he kneels again. He places the shine kit in front of him, unzips the sides evenly, and parts it to reveal a small hand brush, a tin of waxy leather cleaner specific to military-grade boots, a spray bottle of distilled water, and a few other tools.

Aden removes the rectangular hand brush and eases forward, closer to Grant’s boots. Grant is pleased he can still see so much of the umber thicket of Aden’s hair across his legs and his belly, and thinks about putting his boots on Aden’s crotch again—after they’re clean, of course.

Then Aden reaches out and closes his fingers slowly behind the heel of Grant’s boot. Grant smiles, already liking where this is going. He lifts the boot in Aden’s hand and places it over the convergence of Aden’s thighs, tilting his foot just so his toe and heel touch opposite legs. Then he rests his muscles, drops some of his weight, and watches Aden’s face for a reaction. He’s not trying to hurt him—there are certainly better ways to inflict good pain on the sylvan. And this is Aden’s demonstration, after all.

Aden’s grip on the back of Grant’s book doesn’t slack, and with his other hand he uses the brush to clear dust from the top of Grant’s boot before moving to the sides. Each stroke of the hand brush is precise, with mechanical intent, the leather already appearing less faded and worn.

Aden uncaps the tin of wax cleaner, runs a rag through it and dollops the thick goop on the rise Grant’s boot. He uses another rag to spread it evenly around the foot.

Grant leans forward slowly until his elbow can rest on his own knee. Aden falters, grunts quietly, then continues polishing the boot. Grant smiles at the fact that the sylvan’s not so easily rattled. He likes the challenge.

When Aden sits back and looks up expectantly, Grant removes his boot. The imprint is a fierce, angry pink, and Aden sees it too. He begins to reach for it, to touch it, and as much as Grant likes the idea of Aden admiring the Colonel’s boot print in his skin, Grant covers the pattern with his other boot. As Aden works on his left foot, Grant admires his right, now the color of fresh tarmac sheened with oil.

Grant recalls now, when he’d filled out the quartermate requisition, why he’d marked ‘not interested’ on being worshipped. What had come to mind at the time was someone waiting on him hand and foot like some doting civilian spouse. Aden’s version of worship was far superior, and though the Colonel took pride in polishing his own boots to their weathered luster, seeing Aden do it for him sent tingles and sparks up the back of Grant’s neck.

Aden finishes the right boot, and Grant pulls it away, leaving another fresh imprint embossed over the first. He catches Aden staring again. “You like seeing the bottom of my boot on you, boy?” he asks.

“Yes, sir,” Aden stammers as he replaces the tools back into the shine kit, and Grant knows he’s not lying.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Grant says. “Return that under the sink in the kitchen. Wash your hands thoroughly, and resume your position.”

Aden doesn’t say yes sir, but snatches up the kit and hurries to the kitchen. Grant counts thirty seconds of running water before it shuts off, and Aden’s kneeling again with the same grace as before. The imprint has faded, and Grant longs to freshen it.

“I expect gratitude when I give you the opportunity to serve me,” Grant says, tugging at the fastener of his uniform pants.

Aden’s head tilts up, and his face is reserved. “Thank you for letting me shine your boots, sir.”

“A good start,” Grant says, pulling his cock out. The air it hits only reinforces how hard Aden’s attention has made him. “I found your demonstration satisfactory. You’ve earned your first reward.”

Now Aden’s eyes light up. “Thank you, sir,” he says, and this time it sounds undeniably sincere. Grant likes his resolve at not looking too hungry, but he wants to see the sylvan let go a little, too.

No time like the present.

“Open up,” Grant says. “Wide.”

Aden does, and Grant fills his mouth with his dick in a one-way thrust of his hips. Aden gags immediately, pulls off. Grant lets him recover, and his patience is honored with Aden’s wide-open mouth presented to him again. His tongue is lax, resting just on the edge of his bottom lip, as saliva pools around it.

Grant enters his mouth, once again with no pause, but Aden is prepared this time. The Corporal wastes no time and thrusts, deep and slow and rhythmic. He grips Aden’s head with little regard for the sylvan’s comfort, digging one thumb into his cheekbone. The fingers of his other hand encircle an antler. Grant’s gaze imprisons Aden’s, his two wide eyes chained to stare up, full and hazy with lust.

“Good boy,” Grant purrs. “Keep looking up at me, just like that.” He suspects this angle has his cock hitting Aden’s gag reflex, but he takes it as if he’s unbothered. Grant quickens his pace, both hands on the sylvan’s head as he rocks forward into warmth. He can feel suction, can feel Aden’s tongue trying to take hold along his shaft.

When he comes, he buries himself to the sounds of Aden choking, a sound like boots being pulled from muck, and he pulls out to let Aden cough and gag through it. Grant hears Aden say something, but it’s cracked and slurred by his drooling.

“Speak up, boy,” Grant says.

“Th-thank you for coming down my throat, sir,” Aden repeats.

Grant chuckles and catches Aden’s jaw in his hand. Tears wet the twin folds of his eyelids. “You took it well, soldier,” Grant murmurs. “On your feet and come with me.”

Aden rises, though Grant sees that he’s shaking. He feels a surge of accomplishment in rattling the solider, as if he’s remembered a long untapped skill. He leads Aden to his bedroom, as bare as the rest of his quarters. He’s not much for mementos or décor like other soldiers.

“Lie on your back,” Grant says, tugging open a drawer in his bedroom’s only nightstand.

Aden obeys silently, easing himself onto Grant’s perfectly made bed with his arms stiff at his sides.

Grant takes his seat on the edge of the made bed, holding a vibrator in one hand. Aden’s eyes land on it, go wide like he’s starving.

Grant’s voice is cut low when he speaks. “You know better than to come without permission, don’t you, soldier?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Grant switches the vibrator on a medium setting. He taps the end of Aden’s cock with his fingertip, then dips lower to collect pre-come on his fingers. Grant lubes Aden up with his own arousal, the vibrator thrumming dutifully in the Corporal’s other hand. Aden whimpers and fights his body’s instinct to jerk away at Grant’s touch. He’s over-sensitive and leaking, wound up and ready to snap.

Grant runs the edge of the vibrator along the underside of Aden’s cock, light pressure, just to see how he reacts. Aden’s body jerks, and Grant smiles before he does it again, firming up the pressure, and Aden groans, “Sir.”

Grant switches hands, using his fingers to probe Aden’s wetness again, ignoring his cock.

“Sir, please.” Aden’s voice hollows and cracks, but his lips still mouth the last word over and over.

Grant thinks he could listen to Aden begging for hours, and the thought gets him stiff again. Hours of teasing Aden, edging him over and over, just enough for Grant’s own arousal to peak so he can jerk himself off all over Aden’s face and leave him unfinished and, ideally, in messy, frustrated tears. Grant’s never considered himself a selfish lover, but while the fantasy felt near sadistic even for him, Grant sees the absolute submission in Aden’s dilated pupils and wants to see him desperate.

The sylvan would do anything his Corporal asked; Grant’s certain of it. But this is only their first session, and Aden has been damn near perfect, and Grant should go easy on him. Wants to.

Grant presses the vibrator tight against the base of Aden’s cock, jerking him with his other hand. He feels his own features soften when he finally says, “Come for me, Private.”

Aden’s body quivers and twitches as he moans, hips moving on their own into Grant’s touch. His moans crescendo and fall into whimpers as his orgasm peaks. He pulls away, and Grant lets him, shutting the vibrator off and tossing it aside on the crisp bed linens. Aden sits up, catches himself on one outstretched arm, his chest heaving.

“Thank you, sir,” Aden says softly as he pants.

Grant laughs softly and stands, stowing the vibrator in a drawer. “Come,” he says, beckoning Aden with his hand.

“Already did, sir.”

“I do enjoy that cheek, but I’m serious. I’ll help you stand if you need it.”

Aden jolts to his feet at that, as if to say, No, I’ve got it. A show of stubbornness that Grant finds himself relishing as Aden follows him back into the den.

“You may dress yourself,” Grant says. “I have no preference for habitual nudity.”

“Fine by me, sir,” Aden says, quickly pulling his joggers and his loose shirt back on. Without prompting, Aden takes a seat on the end of Grant’s sofa, his expression still dazed.

A quick glance at the digital wall clock tells Grant it’s later than he realized, and if he hasn’t eaten, Aden likely hasn’t either. He says nothing as he steps into the kitchen and throws together a small platter of nuts, dried fruit, and soft cheese. He places the platter on the low table in front of the sofa, but seats himself in an adjacent armchair.

“Eat,” he says.

Aden scoops up a handful of nuts and dried fruit in one hand, but lifts a single piece of cheese to his mouth with the other. His eyes are still distant, but they focus as he chews.

“I find this arrangement agreeable, Private,” Grant says. “And I accept your stipulation.”

Aden nods slowly, almost as if he didn’t hear Grant. He’s still out of it.

“I expect a verbal acknowledgement, soldier.”

Aden stops chewing and looks at Grant, eyes fearful for a few seconds before they harden. He swallows. “The arrangement is agreeable to me as well, sir.” The way he says it is soft, but firm.

“Something seems to be on your mind, soldier,” Grant says. “You may speak freely.”

It’s not until Aden finishes the hasty campfire mix in his hands that he says, “I did well, then?”

Grant isn’t sure where this is coming from. Aden hadn’t seemed uncertain of himself at any point during their session. His small flares of attitude had perhaps pointed to over-confidence. 

Three percent, Grant reminds himself. Three percent that implied compromise.

Grant was not a bearer of compliments. He often had to remind himself to praise his men when they did well, sometimes publicly depending on the personality. It wasn’t that they disappointed him; he was not expectant of praise unto himself, and thus forgot it was something others sought.

“You did well, Aden,” Grant says, finding his voice gentle. “I’m very pleased.”  

Aden’s face lights up. “Thank you, sir. It means a lot to hear you say that.”

Why? Grant wants to ask, but figures it’s better not to. He thinks back to Aden’s military file, the voluntary transfer. Now he has nothing but questions, but he doesn’t want to disrupt that satisfied, placated look on Aden’s face.

Not to mention they’ve arrived at the part that Grant had hardly thought about since he’d walked into his quarters for the night: what now? If their quartermate arrangement would proceed, what was the ongoing expectation? Would Aden move into his quarters? Were they expected to sleep together? Grant had never shared a bed, much less spent the entire evening with someone. And though he was a good Corporal, he didn’t have the rank for a spare bedroom in his quarters.

“Is there something you wanted to say, sir?”

Aden’s voice drags Grant back to the present. “Apologies,” says Grant. “You’re the first quartermate I’ve been assigned and I’m unsure how things are meant to proceed from this point.”

Aden’s face softens into a smile. “Ah. That’s entirely up to you, sir,” he says, scooping another handful of dried fruits and nuts. “I was told I could retain my own quarters if necessary, but my requisition states I leave the final decision up to you.”

This seems suddenly too real to Grant. Ordering the Private around his bedroom was one thing, but ordering him to sleep there? To spend his time in Grant’s quarters? It didn’t sound terrible… at least, it was starting not to.

“Do you make good coffee?” Grant asked.

“Depends, sir. I prefer it on the strong side,” Aden admits.

“As do I.”

Aden smiles. “Then I suppose I make good coffee.”

The cheek again. Grant really did like it. He takes a heavy breath before he says, “I would ask you stay.”

Aden nods once. “Then I will stay.”

Grant folds his hands before they fall into his lap. He realizes with morose inevitability that he undoubtedly owes the Sergeant a drink the next time they crossed paths in the commissary; perhaps even a whole damn bottle.

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