Newlyweds Derek and Simon suspect their new house might be haunted, and after sharing a few bottles of wine one night testing that theory starts to sound like a good idea.
Added: Jul 2022 5,244 words 5,379 views 4.7 stars (7 votes) This story was commissioned via Direct Commission.
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Derek let out a sudden, tipsy laugh and turned to his new husband and housemate with a sly smile. “I just realized—we can test your theory,” he said.
Their new townhouse was dark (the electricity not being slated for switch-over until the next day) and crammed of two lives’ worth of boxes and belongings; with the place in such a state the deep, overstuffed couch in the ground-floor front room, daubed in the glimmering light of the two low, fat candles they’d found and planted on the coffee table, felt like a refuge. The wine—they were on their third bottle now, Derek was pretty sure—helped with that, too, not to mention the way Simon’s slimmer form nuzzled comfortably under Derek’s nicely-muscled arm like he belonged there, warming Derek’s heart. Behind them, a stray firefly meandered past the uncurtained bay windows under a moonless, starlit sky, while San Francisco slept.
Simon tilted his head to look up at him, his expressive eyes perplexed and curious. Their bluish hue, a stark contrast to his pale skin and raven hair, seemed to vacillate with his mood and context, ranging from stormy blue to a radiant green; right now they were a deep, vivid teal, betraying, Derek reckoned, an utter contentment mixed with simmering lust, neither sentiments Simon was likely to voice aloud. His striking, changeable eyes was one of the first things Derek had noticed about the younger man all those months ago when Derek had turned up at Simon’s shoebox Wilmington apartment delivering a box of (as he later discovered) quirky sci-fi-themed socks Simon had been sure he would never have the guts to let anyone catch him wearing (he was wearing a pair now, thick navy cotton ones with little white-and-gold pocket-watches). That delivery had been a good omen in more ways than one: not only had he met a lithe and lissome young veterinary student cute enough for Derek to risk asking out right there that day despite looking like a dork in his green-and-gold work uniform (shorts, hairy legs, and all), it had also been one of Derek’s last deliveries before being abruptly routed into a succession of increasingly well-paying management positions, first at the Denver hub, now here in San Francisco.
Derek smiled down at his lover fondly. The eyes might be showing serenity and bank arousal; that broad, cheesy grin, on the other hand, told him that Simon was at least as trashed as he was. Usually his newly-minted husband let his larger emotions gambol about in a well-tended reserve deep inside himself, whence they seldom surfaced in his facial expressions and body language. Even at his most exuberant strangers and acquaintances seldom saw more than a ghost of a smile. Liquor was one of the things that opened him up, Derek had discovered; another would be coming soon enough, if they could find the bedsheets. For a sweet, soft-spoken guy, Simon sure was one energetic and vocal lover. Though he considered himself vers Derek had found that sweet, boyish Simon brought out the top in him, and pounding his man had become pretty much his favorite thing in the world… though he often wondered to himself what it would be like the other way around.
Derek blinked blearily down at Simon’s pretty face. “What was I talking about?” he mumbled. He let his smile grow wolfish. Please say fucking, a voice coached from somewhere inside his wine-softened brain.
Simon snorted through his nose. “My ‘theory’?” he said. He was clearly still unsure what Derek had been referring to.
“Oh. Right!” Derek exclaimed. His focus swerved dramatically, like a tripod-mounted telescope knocked clumsily askew. With the impetuousness of the inebriated Derek leaned forward to plunk his wine glass on the table, then did the same with Simon’s before snatching one of the candles in one hand and hauling Simon to his feet with the other. “Bring a candle, c’mon!” he said, pulling his bemused husband by the hand and dragging him toward the stairs. “I saw the box, I know I did…”
On the third floor they passed the master bedroom (which had, weirdly enough, contained the only article of furniture that had come with the place—a stout, wooden king-size bed frame, much too big for them, to which the Realtor had thoughtfully and amusingly added a set brand new mattresses). Instead Derek made straight for the extra bedroom down the hall where amidst the packed cardboard detritus of their move he found exactly what he was looking for: a large box with the legend GAME NIGHT STUFF Sharpied onto the side in Simon’s distinctive bold, narrow handwriting. They set the candles on a nearby end table and Derek immediately knelt next to the box and set to work peeling off the tape.
“Dere—” Simon started to say, incredulous and laughing as he came all the way into the room and dropped down opposite him, but then he tailed off, distracted by the shifting of Derek’s work-honed muscles under his clingy tee shirt. Simon himself liked to dress up—even now, he was still wearing the very flattering dark burgundy button-up and dark trousers he’d worn to his new vet residency (along with the cutesy time-travel socks)—but he also approved of Derek switching to ultracasual at home, like the faded graphic tee and old three-stripe Adidas sweats he had on now. Any opportunity to admire Derek’s fit body and tight ass was much appreciated.
Derek was tilting up each of the stacked board game boxes inside to see what was underneath. “Acquire… Scrabble… Cards Against Humanity… Catan… YIAY… Pandemic… Aha! See?” From halfway down Derek hauled out a long, black box and dropped it triumphantly on the top of the pile. “See?” he said again.
“What—oh,” Simon said, his cheeks reddening slightly even as he grinned at the Ouija board his husband had unearthed before looking up to meet Derek’s eyes. “Really,” he teased, his tone arch. He’d somehow made the word both a challenge and an invitation, in that way Simon had. “What’s next if this doesn’t work, chanting ‘Bloody Mary’ into the bathroom mirror?”
Derek’s pulse quickened. Damn, he wanted to do everything and anything with this man, and he could tell Simon was right there with him. “We’re both too into dick for be calling for any chick named Mary,” he chided.
Simon nodded sagely. “‘Bloody Murray,’ then?” he suggested. They both giggled.
It was the one thing Simon had said during their walkthrough of the vintage townhouse with the Realtor. They’d toured the three floors together with Simon wide-eyed but in characteristic silence the whole time while Derek had asked all the pertinent questions… excerpt for one moment when he’d sidled up to Derek, on the third-floor landing (just outside this room, in fact) and joked in a dry undertone, “This place has got to be haunted.”
Derek still smiled every time he thought about it. In fact the Realtor had confided to Derek in an earlier email that a previous owner, a forty-something nightclub owner, had died unexpectedly in a tragic accident. But Derek hadn’t mentioned it to Simon, a little paranoid his sometimes-sensitive sweetie might back out buying the one house they both loved. And it hadn’t come up since, so it was pretty funny Simon had brought up the idea of the place having a morbid history all on his own. Anyway, going by Simon’s joke at the walkthrough he hadn’t sounded like he was put off—if anything, he’d been intrigued.
And Derek had to admit… now that they were alone in the space there was something tantalizingly paranormal about the old house. He’d been picking up on it for a while, just on the edge of his perceptions, like something almost glimpsed from the corner of your eye. It was more potent up here, he thought, away from the street-level mundanities of everyday humanity.
Derek ran a hand over his close-cropped, dirty-blond hair, a little unnerved at what his sixth sense had seemed to be telling him all night. How smashed was he? He’d never gotten all paranormal on a bottle and a half of pinot noir before. Even now, he could almost feel something in the air with them, encouraging them. Goading them. Do it, it seemed to urge, while the room seemed to throb with anticipation. Derek reminded himself that it had to be all just the wine playing tricks on him, but thanks to the very same wine he didn’t listen and didn’t care. Ghosts in the spare bedroom? Kinda awesome. He wanted to do this. He was in.
Simon must have felt it too, because he grabbed the flat black box from the pile and, pushing the game night cache well aside to clear a space, started unpacking the game onto the polished hardwood floor. They set aside the bogus “instructions,” unfolded the board between them, and together they centered the planchette on top. Both of them then rested their fingers on its upper surface in emulation of thousands of couples before them. The tool was large and heart-shaped, with a wide round hole near the bottom—like an anus, Derek thought drunkenly, suppressing a boyish snicker. It felt like it was, or was becoming, oddly substantial. It was clearly made of real wood rather than the plastic he’d expected, and staring at it it came off as somehow worn with age. Even the board appeared to be antique, almost hand-made rather than mass-produced, though rationally he knew they’d just taken it out of the same paperboard box he’d bought it in as part of a job lot of eight board games he’d gotten on package discount at Wally Walliams’ Crafts and Funz to add to their socializing stash.
Simon looked up at him and grinned. The room was brimming with so much needle-sharp anticipation, Derek half expected to hear an ominous crack of thunder from the cloudless night sky outside. Simon hammily cleared his throat and lifted his face toward the ceiling with his eyes closed, like a soothsayer from ages past and forgotten. “O spirits of the dark, speak to us!” he intoned playfully in his high, sweet tenor, and Derek had to push down a laugh. A choir-boy’s voice, Derek thought. He bet demons probably found it as delicious as he did. That thought was pretty funny, too, though he kept his silly mirth in for the moment. This was a serious moment! he scolded himself, almost forcing another giggle.
“Tell us your wisdom, spirits!” Simon continued dramatically. “Is our new home truly haunted?”
Under their fingertips the planchette started to move. Whether they were really shifting it themselves or under the influence of some external force, Derek’s blurry sensibilities could not be sure; all he knew was that it slid directly and without hesitation toward the top-left corner of the board, stopping finally over the single, ornately written word, “Yes.”
Derek tried not to smirk, though the truth was his heart was fluttering at how eerie that had just been. He schooled his face into a mock blandness, ignoring the goosebumps running up his forearms, and sat back on his haunches with a nod. “Well, there you are,” he said lightly, taking his hand off the planchette. “Asked and answered. Want to play Lost Cities?”
He straightened and started to turn toward the games box, making as if to reach in for the title in question, but Simon grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down. “Get back here!” he said, giggling. “We can’t leave it like that!”
With an indulgent smile Derek dutifully replaced his fingers on the wooden planchette, and Simon continued the ritual. He’d known pretending to disengage would make Simon double down, and he was thrilled to be right—Simon’s excitement was contagious, just as his happiness was a balm. “Thank you for speaking to speaking to us, O Spirit!” Simon announced, quickly reassuming his dramatic soothsayer’s voice. “What shall we call you?”
The planchette moved. Derek was sure he was drunk now, because he didn’t feel at all in control of his movements. Jerking the planchette away or taking his fingers off it no longer seemed like something that was possible in the physics of the world he inhabited. In rapid succession the round peephole in the planchette spelled out a response, starting with the T, then H and O, and continuing until it answered with a complete name: Thomas.
They didn’t know anyone by that name, which to Derek made their shared involuntary response seem extra-spooky. The tension in the room around them seemed to have magnified tremendously over the last few minutes—almost as if the spirit were concentrating its energies on them. Derek felt its presence all around him: it potently masculine, far more than either of them. His skin felt hot, and beads of sweat started prickling at his balls.
“What do you look like, Thomas?” Derek heard himself blurt out. Simon giggled again, amused at Derek’s question, and when the planchette jerkily spelled out B—I—G, they both laughed. He seemed flushed, too—maybe he was feeling that heat in the room as well. Derek belatedly remembered Simon sometimes got horny when he was drunk, and he’d always thought of that as a Simon thing, so it was kind of funny that Derek was feeling more than a little turned on himself.
“I bet you are,” Simon told the ghost with a salacious smirk, getting in on the act. “Are you big everywhere?”
H—U—G—E, the planchette spelled out. They laughed, and Derek’s cock stirred, quickly chubbing to half-hard in his sweats. Weirdly he felt a twitch in his bung-hole, too, but he ignored it. “What else?” Derek asked the board. “What else are you, Thomas?”
H—A—I—R—Y came the response. Derek felt in sync with Simon, like the spirit was turning them on together. The intense feeling in the room kept deepening bit by bit. A trickle of sweat slid down Derek’s spine, plastering his tee shirt to his skin.
Simon and Derek took turns egging the “spirit” and each other on, drawing out more details that, he told himself, had to be coming from their own wine-liberated imaginations. Tattoos. Piercings. Beard. Muscle. Beer-can cock. Seven feet tall and packed with hairy, tatted muscle. Then came two words that sent an unexpected shiver through them both: Leather Dom.
Apprehension and curiosity curled powerfully through Derek’s gut. At first he pictured the men of the leather scene he’d encountered by accident over the years. In porn, briefly, as he searched for the more mainstream stuff he was comfortable with. At a certain club in Denver that had a mixed clientele some nights. That bald, fiftyish leather daddy that was on his route in Wilmington who sometimes answered the door “in uniform” with a big smirk under his salt-and-pepper collarbone-length beard, no doubt delighted at the chance to mess with delivery guys like him. As the questions went on, though, this leather dom, this Thomas, took on a life of his own between them as he and Simon used the board to add more and more attributes to his image.
Rightly or wrongly, his wobbly, overheated thoughts had melded their Thomas with the deceased previous owner. He feverishly pictured him roaming their townhouse, towering over his own furniture… decked out in full leather gear, his massively hairy chest and barbell nip piercings on display… black leather straps over his shoulders and around his flanks met at a steel ring just below the center of his brawny chest, above a flat, furry belly… a leather jockstrap emphasized the shape and weight of his enormous dick and balls as well as the telltale ring-ridge of a reverse prince albert… In their minds Thomas was huge, bigger than the two of them together, growing more and more sensual and intimidating and unstoppable with every detail he and Simon conjured from the board…
A cold breeze washed over them, and one of the candles guttered and snuffed out. Looking up from the board in alarm, his skin prickling, Derek squeaked in dismay as a faint, smoky chartreuse spirit seemed to coalesce in the near-darkness behind the hunched-over, gleeful silhouette of his young husband. As Derek stared, goggle-eyed, the spectral presence grew to grotesque proportions, looming and masculine and utterly in control.
“S-simon…” Derek breathed, unable to find his voice.
Simon looked up, worried, his slim frame dwarfed by the specter behind him. His lips formed an interrogative wh—, but before he could be speak an impossibly deep, sepulchral voice filled the room.
“Thank you,” Thomas’s monstrous spirit boomed, smiling ferally down at them. To Derek’s terrified ears the deep, pebble-vibrating sound of the leather-dom phantom’s voice was freighted with jubilant menace. “Thank you, puny fools, for bringing me back to the world of the living!”
Derek watched as Simon turned paper-white. Slowly, he turned to see what had spoken, just in time for Thomas’s heavily inked arm to reach toward him, hand splayed as if to grab his shoulder—or his soul.
Simon screamed, falling back on his butt. Simon’s scream freed Derek’s own, and they both continued screaming as they scrabbled back on their asses away from the specter, kicking aside the game board and planchette in their haste to get away. The thing moved toward them, and they screamed again.
They had to get out. The open doorway way right behind them—Derek flitted a glance behind him just to make sure. They had to get out! They had to leave the house and run, just run and run and run, all the way back to Denver if necessary.
Managing to get to his feet in one jerky push Derek reached out to pull Simon up too, intending to flee with him. But just as their hands brushed a powerful force shoved Derek hard in the chest, hurling him out of the bedroom with monumental force and skidding onto the polished floor of the corridor beyond. He heard Simon scream his name as he smashed into the banister, and for a terrifying second he thought he’d crash right through it and down the steep flight of stairs to the second floor.
His relief when the banister held was short-lived, however. Even as he made eye contact again with a terrified Simon, now prone and reaching out to him, the door slammed shut between them so violently the whole house seemed to shake. “Noooooo!!” Derek screeched. Ignoring the bruises from his ghostly smack-down he clambered to his feet and ran to the door, but when he grabbed the knob it wouldn’t budge. The door itself felt cold, as if some supernatural force were investing it, rearranging its molecules and those of the wood around it so that it was bound to its frame forever.
“Simon!!” he bellowed, banging on the door with his fist.
Simon screamed Derek’s name again, making Derek’s heart fall right through the floor, but the cry was drowned out by Thomas’s deep laughter.
Everything was happening too fast. He tried the knob again—useless. Panicking, Derek tried the only other thing he could think of: he appealed to the ghost himself. “Thomas!” he yelled anxiously through the door to the leather dom afflicting them from beyond the grave. “Thomas, if you can hear me, please! I’m begging you, don’t hurt Simon! Please, he’s the only thing in the world that matters!”
“Derek!” Simon called again. His voice sounded strange, like something was happening to his throat. “Derek, I love you!”
Tears streamed down Derek’s cheeks. He was angry now, angry and terrified. “Thomas!” he sobbed, pounding once more on the solid, unmoving door. “Don’t you fucking hurt him!”
Even as the words were leaving his mouth he heard the impossibly deep voice of the ghost that seemed to reverberate through the whole house. “I would not,” it rumbled, dark but insistent.
Instantly, as if to belie the words, overlapping with this came the sound of Simon crying out again—though it didn’t sound as much like him now, and it didn’t sound like the cry was all from fear this time…
Derek’s right hand shot back to the knob, but before he could try rattling it again he stilled as a vision seemed to seem right through the frigid door, up his other hand and straight into his optical nerves. All at once his sight was filled with the room beyond. Thomas wanted him to see.
With no moon that night and both candles now out, the room should have been as dark as a hole. But an ethereal, gray-green ambience seemed to come from the towering shape of their ghostly, muscle-alpha visitor and the floor around him, turning the angular, silhouetted shapes of the various boxes filling the room into a strange, expressionist landscape. Simon had risen to his stockinged feet and was facing the creature, hands splayed out in front of him as if he could ward off his approach. The kicked-aside ouija board and planchette were now out of sight somewhere, and the little open space they’d made to play with the game was now occupied by Simon himself, lit along with the ghost with that ethereal light as though it were a tiny gladiatorial ring. In his defensive stance Simon’s dress shirt seemed to fit him oddly, an inch of smooth, hairless wrist now showing at the cuffs.
“D-don’t come any closer,” Simon demanded querulously. His voice sounded raspy, and Derek realized the air around him was faintly alight with wisps of that ghostly emanation—Simon had already been breathing little bits of him in. Derek pressed himself to the cold door, desperate to be closer to his man.
The creature’s eyes were fixed on Simon, leering down at the man’s comparatively puny form. He was as they had pictured him, and beyond, exaggerated by the smoky projection of his form so that he half-filled the little room. Dark hair covered his thick powerlifter body from his cheeks to his heavy pecs and flat belly to his mountainous legs, all the way to his ankles and the tops of his feet. In certain places, like the flats of his arms, bold-line tattoos featuring could be seen under the hair, the one that most caught his attention being the stark, bold, sans-serif SIR inscribed on his left shoulder. His hands were large, the fingers thick and long, as if he might be both strong and deft. Disturbingly, Derek saw that the titanic phantom was wearing almost exactly the x-harness Derek had pictured in his head as they’d built up his description with the board: four simple inch-and-a-half black straps over the shoulder and flanks, meeting at a steel ring at the base of his sternum. His simple, vastly overstuffed leather jock was the only other item of clothing he wore, unless you counted the hardware on his pierced nips and glans. His face was indistinct but brutishly handsome, with a prominent nose, bared teeth, and blazing coal eyes. He had the look of a man who would tear anything that threatened what mattered to him into bloody pieces.
“Too late,” the voice intoned. He moved toward Simon, and Simon froze like a deer in his defensive posture, unable to step back, his eyes wide and round with terror. “You summoned me, and you… we… cannot resist. You have drawn me to you—Simon—”
Derek felt a sickening chill surge through him at the ghost using his man’s name like that. Before he could cry out the “Nooo!!” that was building up in him, the ghost lunged toward Simon, seeping rapidly into him, through his pores and up his nose and mouth and every orifice, even his eyes, invading and filling the young with gray-green fire. Simon threw his head back and screamed, and as Thomas vanished, pulled completely into Simon, the scream became a roar, his voice now shaking the room as intensely as Thomas’s had.
“Simon!” Derek cried from his side of the door. Helpless, he could only watch, hands and chest pressed hard against the wood, as Simon’s body became utterly suffused with Thomas’s force and began to transform in sudden, violent wrenches, as though he were going through puberty after puberty, his masculinity and potency compounding exponentially each time. He jerked up in height—three inches, six more inches, a foot. The beautiful burgundy shirt tore open, first at the shoulders, then at the sides and arms, as Simon’s fists squeezed in agony. The thin dress pants burst open at the thighs and calves, exposing tree-trunk legs that swelled and lengthened again and again in sudden gasps of transformation. Thick muscle pounded out of him, spreading the tears in his shirt at the shoulders and upper arms and sending buttons flying as his chest expanded even beyond the proportions of the ghost-giant. The shape of his fat, uncut cock and fist-like balls swelled again and again, becoming much bigger than anything Derek had ever dreamed of. The deafening roar continued throughout, deepening octave by octave, until it threatened to descend below what humans could even perceive. He seemed to age with the changes as well, no longer Simon’s boyish 25, his face morphing and twisting to show the years a forty-year-old Simon would have seen.
“Simon,” Derek whispered, upset and awed at the same time. What are you becoming?
Still lurching larger in short, sudden fits, Simon seemed to regain some of his freedom of motion. He pulled off the shredded dress shirt and flung it aside, and then, in a shocking burst of strength, he tore open to constricting waistband of his now too-small trousers and rent what was left of the pants off of his massive, steel-hard body. Even as he did this his skin prickled and flowered with tiny jet-black hairs across every expanse, filling his smooth, enlarged, aged-up face with a heavy yet tasteful beard and covering his body stem to stern like a time-lapse transformation of a desert into a dark-grassed savannah.
He straightened up as the size boosts eased and tapered off, leaving him a panting, seven-foot alpha behemoth. Despite his horror Derek could not help staring at the ultra-extreme masculine form of his once sylph-like husband, and his body betrayed itself by reacting with pure, animal desire.
The changes weren’t done yet, however. As he stood there recovering, head bent and massive shoulders hunched, Derek watched in astonishment as first the tattoos, then the piercings, and finally the leather gear seemed to be forced out from his very skin. The x-harness that appeared in this way was just his size, despite this new Simon ending up larger-muscled than Thomas had seemed to be (especially in his looming, shadow-creating pecs and his boulder-like shoulders)—but the leather jock he wore now barely held back the truly gargantuan junk he now possessed. That junk seemed to pull at Derek, urging him to bring that mighty cock and those massive balls pleasure and release. That hairy skin, too—he knew the tangy taste of his sweat would be different now, darker, more intoxicating. He raked his eyes up what Simon had become, toward the face he knew and did not know… even as it lifted and blue, burning eyes met his.
The door popped silently open, released at last from its cold bonds. Because he had been leaning so hard against it Derek stumbled forward and fell, landing on his hands and knees. He looked up at the huge, transformed man, fear and lust warring fiercely in him.
The bearded giant was smirking at him now, perhaps amused that Derek had accidentally assumed such a submissive position. He took a step toward Derek, but Derek flinched back, edging away from him. “Don’t hurt me,” he said instinctively, dropping his eyes to the floor.
Even as he said this, he knew that he knew better. In this position, eyes down, what filled his vision was, oddly enough, the giant’s feet—which were still cheekily clad in Simon’s favorite comfy-cotton navy pocket-watch-themed socks, though the weave was admittedly straining to the limits of endurance at the massive dogs they now contained, and a big toe had already pushed through the reinforced ends on the right side. Simon was still here, the socks seemed to be saying. Derek’s heart seemed to start beating again, as if it had been stopped for a long time.
Even as these thoughts passed through his jumbled head, Derek felt a finger under his chin, irresistibly lifting his head so that the now-crouching giant could meet his gaze. Fiery, luminescent blue eyes met his. “I would never,” the bearded man intoned in his impossibly deep Simon voice. His tone was slightly remonstrative, as if Derek should know this already.
A thrill ran through him as he understood the truth in those shining, phosphorescent eyes: this man would bring him only safety and pleasure.
Derek nodded, accepting. The man caressed his cheek, and Derek found himself leaning into the touch. “Are you… Simon? Or are you Thomas?”
The bearded man smiled, though it was a secretive smile. Perhaps there were things he was still working out from his now-combined lives as Simon and Thomas. Perhaps there were things Derek would have to earn the privilege of knowing.
“You may call me Silas,” he rumbled in that impossible, sub-basso voice. His smile torqued to one side slightly. “Except when we are fucking,” he added, one eyebrow raised.
Inexplicably, Derek found himself smiling. His eyes flicked to the tattoo on Silas’s left shoulder, carried over from the phantom they’d conjured. How much of all of this had he and Simon dreamed up, and how much was the true Thomas? “Perhaps I should call you ‘sir’,” he said.
“As you wish,” Silas allowed. He straightened, hand still cupping Derek’s cheek, so that Derek had to stand too. He realized he was hard, achingly hard, and he had that curious twitching in his ass again.
He drank in Silas’s body, remembering the tumultuous transformation he had just gone through. He looked up again, meeting his eyes. He wanted to explore this amazing, hypermasculine landscape, but maybe the other man wasn’t ready. “Are you in pain? ‘Sir’?” he asked.
“No,” Silas said. “But I am… hungry.” The glimmer in those knowing eyes told Derek it wasn’t food the bigger man craved.
Derek grinned, smug with love and lust. He took his giant new dom’s massive paw in his own, and with a ferocious smile Silas let himself be led toward the master bedroom and the sturdy, king-size bed that now seemed to have been waiting for them all along.
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Originally Added: July 2022
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