Thanks to Bill Drake for his inspiration and 77Tsutsu for his art, which will be available at @boymercuryx.bsky.social‬.
1: The Question
I was just an eighteen-year-old kid waiting to meet the new Governor. Not a real meeting, more like a Q&A session for us high schoolers, and I guess a PR thing to kick off the start of his term. It's not cool to admit it, but I was kind of stoked. My first vote ever was for him--Marc Recchi. His campaign had felt like a breath of fresh air, a promise of something different.
Some of his staff milled around, giving us instructions. Everyone seemed to defer to one guy. "AJ, AJ," I must have heard a dozen times, his weary Australian accent cutting through the chatter. I almost had to laugh at how many problems there could be with an event as seemingly simple as this.
Then Governor Recchi stepped out.
He walked right to the podium with the governor's seal on it--but at the last second, he seemed to pivot. He stepped through us to pick up one of the few unoccupied chairs and brought it to the center of the circle, setting it there, back to us, a slight smile on his face.
"You mind?" he asked, already stripping out of his suit jacket, revealing a crisp white shirt on his sturdy shoulders. "It's pretty hot up here under the lights." He set the jacket over the chair back and rolled up his sleeves, snug on his forearms, his collar pressed just a little into the strong column of his neck.
I spotted that AJ guy shaking his head.
At thirty-two, Marc Recchi was the state's youngest governor ever. He was also a bachelor--a detail the media often poked at, but Recchi always deftly redirected those inquiries, saying he was "here to talk about the people's lives, not private lives." That was crazy enough, but even crazier? He was a liberal who'd actually won in deep-red territory.
The moment he moved, you understood why.
He had this strong, no-bullshit masculine vibe. Not that toxic, fake shit. But like the best dad you could imagine--hard driving but patient. With a sense of humor. The kind whose approval you'd crave--which, looking back, was probably why I was so drawn to him. My own dad was absent, and I guess I was always looking for that kind of presence in my own life.
Maybe it's easier to move through the world with that kind of presence when you look like that, I thought. He wasn't tall, but was broadly built, like the college wrestler he'd been. "Go muscles, not show muscles," I recalled a gym teacher saying. His smile wasn't fake or constant; it flickered spontaneously, like it could catch you by surprise.
He settled into the chair, forearms resting over the back, and his face lit up. Suddenly, he wasn't standing above us but at our level, surrounded by us kids. He said hello, introduced himself, making eye contact with everyone. And I mean everyone--like he was taking us all in, one at a time.
Then his gaze landed in the most unexpected place of all--on me. It was intense, direct, and for a second, the chatter of the room, the glare of the lights, even the nervous thump of my own heart, just faded out. Strangely, I was suddenly aware of the scent of old, polished wood.
"What's your name?" His voice was deep and warm, like he was talking just to me, even with everyone watching."
"Harris... uh, Keaton, sir." My face burned, and I reflexively tried to smooth down my stubborn cowlick with my palm, to look less stupid. I wished I could somehow smooth down my extra pounds, the extra softness that left me feeling like a pale lump in contrast to his lean power.
He nodded and his blue eyes crinkled at the corners. "Harris Keaton. Good to meet you. Tell me, Harris, what do you want to do when you grow up? Who do you want to be?"
The question floored me. My mind, which usually had a quick answer for everything, just went blank. All I could think was... him. The man right in front of me.
"You," I blurted out. Just that one word.
There was a flash of shocked laughter through the room, and my face went hot. I could almost feel my cowlick rising right up, and I wanted to die.
But Recchi didn't laugh at me.
Instead, a warm, genuine smile spread across his face, a blush running across his cheeks. He chuckled warmly, and at his gentle amusement, the staff and parents followed suit, their earlier shocked laughter transforming into something softer. He paused, letting the chuckles die down.
"A questionable goal, Harris," he said, his voice low and quiet, drawing me in. "But certainly a flattering one." He paused, his gaze lingering on me for a beat, rescuing me and then giving me another chance. "Perhaps you could elaborate?"
I swallowed, still mortified, but his calm--the second chance he gave--steadied me. "No, I... I want to be you, sir. Like... your drive. How you... care about people. About making things better." By the end, I surprised even myself, saying things I had never articulated before. And even if I sounded like the world's biggest suck-up, it was all true--if not the whole truth.
His smile deepened like he got exactly what I meant. He held my gaze for another second, this shared understanding passing between us. "Well, Harris Keaton," he said, his voice dropping again, "that's a powerful aspiration. Keep that fire. I have a feeling you'll go far, son."
Son. A southern affectation, and in Recchi's case probably part of a strategy to seem more mature than his thirty-two years. But it worked on me, like he was speaking my most secret, true name.
He nodded, signaling the next question from someone else, but the exchange stuck with me.
Even later that night, telling my mom about it again and again--the Governor's eyes, how he came to my rescue the way he did--it all just played over and over in my head.
Maybe it was dumb hero worship, but the way Marc Recchi looked at me, the way we talked together, made me feel so weirdly pumped. Like it was the beginning of something new and unexpected, like things I'd barely hoped for were suddenly, truly, possible.
I could see the power of second chances, and knew that whenever I had the opportunity of one I'd take it.
2: Six Years Later
Six years later, the same polished-wood smell hung in the air of the state building--a strong sense memory that anchored me in that day. But I was a different person. No longer a flustered high schooler, I was twenty-four, wearing my Navy lieutenant junior grade uniform. A few deployments and years of training had filled me out, given me muscle and a presence of my own.
It was a reception for outstanding young military personnel, framed as a way for Governor Recchi to connect with the state's future leaders and highlight his administration's commitment to public service--especially his initiatives for supporting low-income families and immigrant communities.
For us it felt like more than just a photo op; it was a genuine moment of recognition. I was in a line with other young hotshots, to shake hands with Governor Marc Recchi, now in his second term.
He had matured into it--he had more gravity, but still held a boyish charm in his face if his eyes had a slight crinkle in the corners, when he laughed or grinned, which he did often. Any stress he had seemed to be borne by his aide, AJ, hovering near his side, looking slightly more comfortable in his suit than he did six years earlier.
My heart reflexively did a nervous flutter as he neared me. I'd never forgotten him, or that day. That memory stuck with me, pushing me through the times I doubted myself. And now I was a man in a place of honor, about to shake hands with the guy who'd put me there.
When it was my turn, Governor Recchi's eyes passed over me, same as the men at my sides. A polite, practiced glance, no flicker of recognition. What an idiot I had to be, hoping for the impossible--that he'd remember, when I was just one of no doubt thousands of faces he'd seen in his years in office, at one more unmemorable function.
As he began to move past me he stopped, and turned slightly. His voice dropped low, almost a whisper. "So, do you still want to be me?"
Holy shit. I felt the same heat as if the TV lights were on me. But this time I steadied myself faster, on my own, reminding myself I was a man. A junior officer. I had my own confidence. I met his gaze and let a slight smirk play on my lips.
"Governor," I said, my voice dropping to match his. "I still have my ambitions. Regarding you."
For a microsecond, the Governor looked caught flat-footed, if imperceptibly to anyone out of earshot. He recovered quickly. "I'd like to hear more about them."
"Any time, Governor. I'm at your service."
I held his eyes, putting it all out there--a challenge. An invitation.
His public smile didn't waver, but I was sure there was a flicker of something in his eyes that told me he'd taken my meaning.
He made his way down the line, and it was done.
There was some mingling, pleasantries and handshakes--a regular press-the-flesh event, as they're called. I'd been singled out to attend them in the past, in recognition of my bearing and, if I'm honest, my looks. I'd grown into the very picture of the image the Navy wanted to project.
As the event began to break up, Governor Recchi passed me again. His tone was breezy. "Good to see you again," he said with his trademark warm smile. "I'm in town for the weekend and would like to catch up--if convenient for you."
"That would be my pleasure, sir," I replied, standing in my disciplined way.
"If it works for you," he said.
As we shook hands again, his handlers trying to draw him away, he pressed something cool and stiff into my palm, which I took as discreetly as it was offered, completing the transfer.
As he walked away my heart beat hard in my chest, but only after the attention that hovered around him had passed did I risk a glance into my palm. A time and location. Written in pen. Signed, "Best, Marc." Below his signature, in smaller handwriting, was added: "If convenient."
A quiet fire in me was rekindled after six long years, a dizzying rush in my blood. Clutching the cool, stiff card in my palm, I knew this was it. My second chance.
3: A Private Meeting
It wasn't his official residence, but a quiet, upscale hotel suite. A smart move, even I could see--out of the spotlight. I too was discreet, in a dark blue collared shirt that flattered my build, and tan chinos that I knew hugged my rear just right.
After being okayed to head up, I stood at the door, squaring my shoulders. My hair was cut short on the sides, Navy regulation, but I kept enough length on top to let that stubborn cowlick have its way--a subtle reminder that I wasn't just another uniform. I licked my palm to tamp it down enough to pass muster.
I considered for a fleeting second walking in with full swagger--a Navy officer who knew he looked good. But that was beneath Marc Recchi, I imagined. This moment, this invitation, deserved something more.
He greeted me at the door, in person. No suit this time. Just a pale, open-collared shirt that showed off his throat and the solid width of his chest. He looked less like a politician and more like... a man. Thirty-eight and still in his goddamn prime.
"Harris." His grin and voice were even more warm in that private setting. No handshake. Just a direct, long gaze that snagged me. "Glad you could come."
"Governor," I managed, with a slight nod, my voice a little rough. I fought the impulse to salute--made a little easier by his vibe, his relaxed clothes.
Nothing against a tailored suit, especially not the way they looked on him. But even without it, up close, you could see the years had given him subtle gravitas--in his very core. Like a good dad. Someone steady, wise, and strong.
He asked me to call him Marc and offered me a drink--I took a mineral water--and we sat in the plush armchairs in the living area of his suite. The air was cordial, light, yet humming with an undeniable undercurrent.
Marc began, his voice still low, but with a new, intriguing cadence, "Navy life. Tell me about it. Has it... changed your perspective on ambition? On what you want to be?" He leaned forward just slightly, his eyes never leaving mine.
I thought I'd be guarded--judicious in what I reveal, as I usually was. But once again Marc Recchi's stare opened me up. I found myself telling him about the discipline, the travel, the unexpected ways I'd found strength.
Even when I thought I should stop--and I was sure I would--I talked about the different kinds of leadership I'd encountered, the complexities of navigating authority figures both good and bad. As I spoke, I saw Marc studying me, his blue eyes tracking the subtle shifts in my expression, occasionally dropping to the broad shoulders that now stretched my uniform, or the strong line of my jaw. He was taking it all in, absorbing me.
"It sounds like you've seen a lot, and learned even more," Marc said, his voice thoughtful. "Especially about yourself. Not many men your age are so... grounded." His gaze lingered on my mouth for a beat, then flickered back to my eyes. "You carry yourself with a formidable presence."
A flush spread across my chest, deep and hot, and it had nothing to do with the room's temperature. Marc wasn't just acknowledging my growth; he was acknowledging my physicality, the body I'd worked so hard for, every hard plane of muscle a victory, every furrow a win. And that body--my body--hummed in response to his scrutiny.
"It wasn't easy," I told him, my defenses crumbling effortlessly. "I wanted to go to college, but my mom... it wasn't an option. The Naval Academy was a gift--a chance to get an education without the cost. But it's like they say about fitness, it's never owned, and the rent is due every day."
He nodded, eyes settling on my shoulders at the mention of fitness, like I hoped.
"I was raised by a single mom too, Harris." The shared vulnerability, that brief glimpse into his own past, was a jolt. He understood, without me even saying the words.
"You look like you've made yourself into a fine man, son." His words were warm, genuine.
"Thank you, sir. But I hardly think you could have been my father at fourteen," I said, a little cheeky, testing the waters of this newfound familiarity.
He laughed, a genuine, easy sound that reached his eyes. "Fair enough. I'll drop the 'son' if you drop the 'sir.'"
"Hard habit to break," I offered back, a grin spreading across my face. It felt good to have cut through the formality a bit, to find a shared laugh with him. But it felt... real.
A comfortable silence settled between us, broken only by the soft hum of the hotel's ventilation. Marc leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful, a faint smile playing on his lips as he simply watched me. It wasn't intrusive, but deeply attentive, as if he was enjoying just being in my presence.
I felt my own gaze lingering on him--his ruddy cheeks, the subtle way his shirt stretched across his chest, the forearms that hinted at his strength. Every detail about him was heightened, sharper. I noticed the fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the slight curl of his dark chest hair visible just above his collar, the faint, clean scent of his skin.
Finally, I broke the quiet, my voice a little softer now. "Sir--Marc. I've watched you--from afar of course--and I want to support your campaign--however I can." I hoped the words came off as earnestly as I meant them.
He shifted, his attention sharpening. "Oh?" he prompted, his eyebrows raised slightly, inviting me to elaborate.
I spoke freely about his policy positions, the issues I cared about that he championed--education reform, environmental protection, even his subtle pushes for LGBTQ+ rights in this conservative state. I would have been on board even if he weren't so damn handsome--though at the moment it was hard to think of anything other than that. He listened intently, occasionally nodding, his expression conveying genuine interest.
"You're not the usual policy wonk, Harris," he chuckled, a warm spark in his eyes. He gestured subtly at me, a quick sweep of his hand, and a fresh heat bloomed in my cheeks. The playful appreciation in his gaze was unmistakable.
"I like to take care of myself," I said, a faint blush returning. "I told you I wanted to be--to be like you."
"Flatterer!" he retorted, a playful light in his eyes, but still, appreciation.
"No, sir. The media's all over it. Governor Hardbody, isn't it?" I teased, shocked at my own daring, pushing the boundary just a fraction, curious how far I could go, if he'd shut me down.
He put his hands to his face, but a deeper chuckle vibrated in his chest. "Please don't put me through this. That's junk for slow news weeks." He lowered his hands, meeting my gaze, his expression softening, a direct, intimate challenge in his eyes. "But I appreciate the... recognition, Harris. It's not often I get such... direct feedback." His eyes twinkled.
"Marc--If I can ask--how did you recognize me?" The question had been gnawing at me since the official event. I thought of my cowlick, but I knew it wasn't that. I'd had my dress cap on when we met again, so he couldn't have seen it.
"I'm good with faces," he said, his voice dropping to that intimate murmur again. "Always have been. Just an aptitude." He leaned forward, just a fraction, and our knees brushed. My pulse jumped, a jolt of pure excitement. "And you have a very memorable face."
"I was a pudgy boy when you saw me last," I said, a self-deprecating laugh escaping me, testing his memory, testing his honesty.
He turned his face, scrutinizing me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. "I don't remember a pudgy boy. Just a handsome--very handsome--young man, with a fire in him. Full of... promise." His eyes held mine, conveying a depth of perception that stunned me.
I'd been called handsome, hot--a young god even, in a particularly deliriously heated moment. But no one had ever talked about my eighteen year old self that way. Marc Recchi, the Governor, saw something in that awkward, hopeful kid that no one else had. Not even me. And he had remembered it. That hit me, deep. A connection formed, across years and social divides, something that provoked some deeply felt longing I couldn't articulate.
He was still leaning in, his gaze fixed on mine, the air thick with unspoken things. Our knees brushed again. The world outside the hotel suite, the state, his office, my Navy career--all of it faded. There was only him, and me. We both leaned forward and our lips found each other. It was a soft, hesitant brush at first, then a deepening press.
The moment we'd both been holding back finally broke. There was no need for words anymore.
4: The Encounter
"Harris, I--" he breathed, a low, gravelly whisper that sent shivers down my spine. "If this--"
I reached up, cupping his rough jaw. "I want to," I whispered. He didn't have to say the words. We both knew there were powerful men who'd use bodies like mine for their own pleasure.
I would have gladly let him. But I knew that wasn't what this was about.
The first kiss was slow, exploratory--but our hunger quickly took over, mouths opening, tongues pressing in. All those years of quiet admiration, all that pent-up longing, hit me like a wave.
We made fast work of getting into his bedroom, hands running over and under clothes--slipping into his open collar, feeling the firm muscle of his shoulders, fingers sliding under my beltline.
My shirt opened and fell away and I shivered as the air-conditioned cool hit my skin, then the warm brush of his fingertips against my chest. He traced the defined pec and etched abs that Navy training had sculpted onto my frame. My body, a testament to discipline, hummed under his scrutiny.
His hand slid up the sharp, clean lines of my military tight-fade, fingers brushing the shaved sides before ruffling the short, stubborn hair on top. His eyes darkened and he bit his lip--quick and sharp--then let it go.
"God, Harris," he murmured, voice thick with admiration, "you're magnificent."
His mouth latched to a nipple and a soft moan escaped me. No matter how many times I'd heard things like this--felt that kind of desire---it was hard to sink in through the layers of doubt I'd carried for so long.
Emboldened by his open adoration, my hands reached in to grasp at his lean, muscular torso--his solid sides, the firmness so evident under his fine clothes. Years of politics and state dinners hadn't softened him; Marc, despite his demanding public life, maintained the athletic, powerful frame of a wrestler. My already hard cock surged.
His lips found mine again, and his hands roamed my back, exploring every curve, every muscle. We pressed close, my fingers tracing the muscles under his furry chest, feeling every solid plane beneath the skin. This was a man of political power, yes, but also one of raw physical strength.
He dropped his slacks, I dropped my chinos, and our bodies met with a soft thud, cock to cock. I felt the firmness of his stomach against mine, the hardness of his thighs, the velvety brush of our erections. A perfect fit.
We tumbled into his bed where I pulled him on top of me, savoring his weight. I reached down to work his cock with my hand and spread my legs, pulling him in. Raising my hips I steered the head of his cock to my entry, feeling the velvety head there. "Harris--" he began.
"I'd have to lie if I said I didn't prepare," I confessed, heat running across my face and chest. A slow, disbelieving smile tugged at his lips, then a soft chuckle. "I swore if I had a chance at this I wouldn't waste it. And six years is a long time to wait." The shared understanding deepened without another word.
My hole cleaned out with naval precision, and even a slosh of lube inserted just before my arrival, I'd get by with only a quick spit, which Marc was ready to give.
I held his gaze with a shared breath, and felt the pressure of his cockhead to my hole, the initial push, and then the slow breathtaking stretch. Holy fuck. Despite my prep, a gasp escaped my throat. Then with a slow, deliberate slide, he was finally in me--joined.
Marc clamped hands around my shoulders like he was pulling himself deeper into me. And that's how it felt. I was no virgin, but it wasn't just big dick energy he was swinging--I could feel him deep in me--fucking slow and deliberate at first. Testing me to see that I could take it.
And then he fucked me, one leg under his shoulder, one around his thick waist. He'd tested my capacity and then pushed past it, in a way I'd rarely felt before. I thought he'd be more... decorous. But stripped of everything, I could feel him move on me, his wrestler instincts and moves undiminished.
"Oh fuuhhck," I groaned, feeling the spread of my hole at his thickness, the push into my guts and the heat of his body on me. In our clutch he buried his head in the crook of my neck, murmuring--sometimes only fragments of words but conveyed his meaning just the same.
"Fuck, Harris... fucking take it," he gasped between rough breaths, in a yet rougher thrust. "I haven't... for so long."
The world narrowed to just this: Marc fucking me--thrusting inside me, the smacking sound and his scent, fingers around my triceps as his back arched. Looking down I could see my own thick cock bobbing, precum being forced out and into the furrows of my abs, and at the head a pearling bead of white. "Fuck," I gasped, "you're fucking it out of me."
"Oh fuck yeah," he groaned, glancing down at where his hips disappeared into me. He arched into me suddenly, his cock hitting home as he came, dumping into me and shuddering. "Oh FUCK."
"Keep fucking me, sir," I practically pleaded, as he ground out the next rounds of his load.
Seeing how close I was, hearing "sir", he drove into me as I pulled back, hitting me just so--"Fuck yeah, son." At the sound, my muscles clenched and drove a load out of me, on my belly, in the slick space between us. His final drives forced out the rest in waves of release.
I pulled his head up to see him--to see the pleasure in this commanding man's gorgeous face because of me. Our lips locked again, and his hands found their way to my hair. "Harris," he whispered, his voice still rough, "that was...Your...capacity," His thumb stroked my cheekbone. "You are truly... something else."
I just nodded, breathless, words lost to the moment. His compliments hit me with an intensity that rivaled the climax itself. He pulled me closer again, his lips finding mine for a soft, lingering kiss, not of hunger, but of deep, shared contentment.
Time seemed to stretch and then condense as our bodies folded into each other. Our bodies seemed to just fit, effortlessly finding the nooks and soft places to rest.
There was an unspoken agreement to savor this stolen intimacy, knowing the outside world was waiting, ready to intrude.
5: The Complicated Morning After
Sunlight filtered through the suite's heavy curtains, and I was still wrapped up in Marc's limbs, his arm heavy and comfortable around my waist. I stirred gently, shifting, but he pulled me back into place. I could feel the word against my skin--"Stay"--sealed with a kiss.
I did, for a moment. But disciplined, I pushed up on an elbow, turning to look at him. He seemed younger, relaxed, without all the weight of being Governor on him. Still powerful, but more man than politician.
By the time I returned from the bathroom, a fresh wave of raw desire hit both of us. We both knew, without saying it, that the complications of our lives would make this the one chance we'd have. Sure, there could be trysts--assignations. But for Marc--for Governor Recchi--that would be a huge risk. And worse, it would be beneath him. Something tawdry.
We explored each other's bodies more patiently this time, fingers tracing heated skin, whispers lost in hungry mouths. We took our fill of each other, swallowing each other's cocks, wet and eager, and then finally with me entering him the way he'd been in me the night before. The shift in power, pushing into Marc's readiness, was electric.
He wasn't some young buck, all raw energy; he was honed power, a man who knew how to take and knew how to be taken. I felt his body clench around me and heard his sharp intake of breath as I found a new depth in him. His grunts and groans filled the room, deeper, more guttural as I drove into him, hitting that sweet spot he'd found in me hours earlier. It was a breathtaking second climax, one that marked the beginning of the end.
We showered and ate from the well-stocked mini fridge in the suite. Room service would have invited unwelcome eyes. Even walking out together was impossible.
"What's next for you," he asked, "in the Navy?" He wasn't just making conversation; he was genuinely curious, pulling me deeper in.
I again found myself speaking unfiltered, telling him about my aspirations for a promotion, the challenges of command. The systemic flaws I wanted to correct. And he listened, truly listened. When I'd been heard, he spoke about the loneliness at the top, the constant demands, the need for authenticity and the corrosive compromises sometimes demanded of him.
"It sounds like a heavy burden," I said, my head resting against his bare chest. "Even with all the power."
He kissed the top of my head. "Power always comes with a cost, Harris. And sometimes, the heaviest cost is loneliness. I've had to walk a tightrope." His thumb stroked the back of my hand, in what felt like an attempt to soften the blow.
"I understand," I said. And I did. I was only a junior officer, but I knew enough about how the world worked. I rose from his bed and began to dress, my clothes, neatly folded after sex, still over the arm of a chair.
I wouldn't ask him for things he couldn't give. In this matter, his sacrifices would be mine too. It was a strange way to do it, but at least in this, I could be his partner, together bearing the weight of a necessary secret.
"Harris," he said, unprompted. "The reality is... my schedule. The legislative battles. Fuck--that's not even it." I could hear the crushing weight already bearing down on him. "I can already hear my Communications Director, AJ. A gay relationship? With a 24-year-old Navy officer? In this state? The media would have a field day. My opponents would feast."
He held up a hand, fingers curled and then released, to show his political career going up in smoke.
Unspoken in the moment, I was not insensible to the possible impact to my own ambitions.
"I know," I said, buttoning my last shirt button. "It is what it is."
"God, I fucking hate that expression."
I'd seen men in power make hard choices before--the raw truth of it in private, not modeled for the media. I saw it in Marc then: the deep breath, the decision setting hard in his gut.
He turned away. And as I stood to walk to the door, I heard his voice.
"AJ," he said into the phone, his voice steady, not an ounce of the turmoil showing. "We need to talk."
END
Author's note: If this story is well received I may follow up with two sequels, The State of Our Union and First Mate.
