Sir Veillance Gets Busted

Thanks to my friend AJ for his real life inspiration.

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📸 Chapter 1. The Golden Ratio

Arthur James—AJ to friends and co-workers—hated leaving the city. It was Memorial Day weekend, right in the pocket of Seattle’s "Secret Season"—that glorious, brief window when the grey burned off to reveal blindingly blue skies, zero humidity, and mountains out in full force.

But it was a long weekend, and the boys—Julian, Amari, and Davis—had rented a "rustic cabin" on the coast—"rustic" meaning a chef’s kitchen, satellite TV, and high-thread-count sheets.

But getting there still required a three-hour drive through long, winding stretches of dense forest and fading lumber towns that separated civilization from the ocean.

By hour two, the coffee had worn off and the biological imperative had kicked in—time to take a leak.

He pulled his Audi into the sprawling lot of a Walmart Supercenter somewhere near Aberdeen. It was a bleak landscape of commerce—stripped of any authenticity by the international corporations and chains that plowed over local businesses.

Outside his parked car, surrounded by rusted pickup trucks, a pair of seagulls fought over a discarded french fry.

"Ew," AJ muttered.

He grabbed his phone and opened the Group Chat—titled THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS—and typed: “Making landfall at Aberdeen Walmart. If I’m not at the cabin by 5, send a rescue team. Or a sommelier.”

Three bubbles appeared instantly from ‘Julian’: “Eyes on the prize, AJ. Bring us back something rustic.”

AJ ran his fingers through his hair in the rearview mirror.

"Into the breach," he whispered.

He stepped out of the car and immediately adjusted his posture. He dropped his center of gravity, widening his stance just an inch. 

It was a physical code-switch. For all his refined tastes—the Sancerre, the Audi—AJ possessed a weaponized form of "regular guy" that he could toggle on and off.

He didn't have a tell. No lilt in his voice, no swish in his step. He was so convincingly straight-passing that he could have walked into a monster truck rally and nobody would blink.

He wouldn’t look like a tourist here. Just a better dressed regular.

He grabbed a cart he didn't need—camouflage—and glided through the automatic doors.

First priority: The pit stop.

He navigated to the restrooms at the front of the store in a fast, efficient surgical strike. The facility was an unfortunate necessity—the cost of AJ downing the venti iced coffee earlier. He held his breath, relieved his bladder. 

He hummed the chorus of “Love on Top” as he washed his hands with the gritty pink soap, to hit thirty seconds. Then he washed a little more.

Emerging back into the store, he shook his hands dry and tucked his sunglasses into the V of his polo shirt—eyes open.

Arthur James, Communications Director, might be out of place here. But for Sir Veillance, this place might be a gold mine of trade.

It was a harmless vice, really—just capturing some unappreciated male beauty for his own private gallery, shared only with the other guys in The Board of Directors group chat.

The lighting was shockingly ugly—fluorescent tubes humming like mosquitoes. AJ scanned the perimeter. His eyes were trained to filter out the junk, to find the treasures.

He spotted Subject A: A security guard leaning against the “Welcome” podium.

Latino, late 20s. Uniform shirt strained across biceps that were clearly the result of boredom and bench presses. The collar was open, revealing the rim of a white ribbed tank top underneath against tan skin. Dark eyes, sharp jaw and a trim dark mustache that framed plush lips.

He looked alert—too alert. Predator class. If AJ pointed a lens at him, he’d be in handcuffs within seconds—and not in the fun way.

Status: RED ALERT. Do Not Engage. Repeat: DO NOT ENGAGE.

Their eyes met and AJ gave a polite nod and breezed past.

He pushed his cart toward the Electronics aisle. He spotted a pair of college-aged guys with no college in their future, laughing near the video games.

Subject B: Two males, approx. 20-22. Cut-off bro tanks revealing smooth, tanned deltoids and basketball shorts hanging low on their hips. One had an arm draped casually around the other’s neck, fingers grazing a sharp trap. Unthinking intimacy, in that way straight guys had before society ruined them.

Verdict: Objectively perfect trade, in a “You can fuck me for the new X-Box” way. But that wasn’t the mission.

Sir Veillance was a connoisseur with a very particular taste.

He mentally tossed them back into the pond like a fisherman who knows the difference between a minnow and a trophy. 

See you in ten years, boys.

AJ turned the corner into Lawn & Garden, and there he was.

A masterpiece. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Pale hair tufted on either side of slightly projecting ears. Blond stubble that hadn't seen a razor in three days. He was wearing a dingy baseball cap, a faded oversized t-shirt promoting a brewery that went bust in 2014, and grey sweatpants.

He was trailing behind a pair of children like Baby Huey following ducklings—if Baby Huey had shoulders built like a power slugger and the kind of powerful, driving hips meant for breeding a starting lineup.

He was pushing a cart containing a bag of charcoal and a folding chair, staring at the fertilizer. He leaned on the cart, showing the slope of his back and the slow, athletic sway of his rear.

Glorious, unforgiving grey sweatpants.

He seemed oblivious to the antics of the kids—the toddler screaming in the cart seat, a boy of about five running in circles hitting things with a plastic sword, and a slightly older girl whining about a slushie. The proof of his virility was entered into abundant evidence.

He wore the glazed, zen expression of a man who had accepted his fate.

Target Acquired: The DILF.

AJ stopped by a stack of potting soil, pretending to check the price. He looked closer, cataloging the details.

First, the forearms. They were exposed below the short sleeves of his t-shirt—thick, golden tanned, flexing every time he gripped the handle of the cart. Those weren't gym arms; those were "I built the deck and fixed the transmission" arms.

Then, the middle. He wasn't fat, but he wasn't flat. There was a belly there—a soft, confident mound that pressed against the thin cotton of his shirt—the kind of softness that promised a layer of firmness right underneath.

AJ slid his phone up to his chest, casually pretending to text.

Click.

PHOTO 1 (The Establishing Shot): Wide angle. The slump of the still-strong shoulders. The partial head of the screaming toddler in the corner. AJ tried to avoid it entirely, but it did provide a tragic contrast to the stoic, defeated father.

"Milo! I said wait by the pavers!"

The voice cut through the air like glass. A woman marched into the aisle.

She was "Too Much" personified. Too much hair in a chaotic butterfly clip, too much neon floral print on a t-shirt that said WINE O’CLOCK, and definitely too much volume. She wrangled the boy with the sword, snatching it away.

She was The Karen incarnate.

The DILF—Milo, apparently—looked up, his peaceful trance broken. "I was just looking at the—"

"We don't need dirt, Milo. We need to get the diapers and check the clearance rack before it's picked clean. Move it."

AJ adjusted his angle. The Karen was blocking the shot.

Milo sighed, a long exhale that seemed to deflate his entire posture. He turned away, bending over to rearrange the charcoal in the cart.

AJ zoomed in.

Click.

PHOTO 2 (The Close Up): The forearm flexing as he lifted the heavy bag. The sun-bleached little hairs against tan skin. The dad-strength.

Then, Milo bent further over to grab a fallen sippy cup. The movement pulled the fabric of the sweatpants tight across his rear.

It was the Golden Ratio. The lighting was perfect. The pose was vulnerable, potent, and oblivious.

AJ didn't breathe. He tapped the focus on his screen.

He tapped the shutter button.

And then, disaster.

He didn't just take a photo. He hit the volume rocker. And he hadn't silenced his phone since the conference call this morning.

KA-CHICK.

PHOTO 3 (The Money Shot): The shutter fired just as the sweatpants stretched over the firm mounds. Ass. Ass. Ass.

The fake shutter sound echoed off the corrugated metal roof like a gunshot in a library.

Milo looked up with his drowsy eyes. The three kids didn’t seem to notice at all.

Phew.

Then AJ heard it. The voice.

"HEY!" 

AJ froze. His heart hammered against his ribs.

The Karen stepped into his frame of vision—her eyes locked onto AJ’s phone.

She pointed a finger at him—tipped with an accusing, glossy pink acrylic nail.

"Did you just take a picture of my KID?"

---

👮‍♂️ Chapter 2. Interrogation

The walk to the security office was a blur of fluorescent-lit humiliation.

AJ did his best to not shuffle like a perp. Instead, he walked with the stiff-legged stride of a Platinum Medallion member being denied access to the airline lounge. There was obviously a terrible—terrible—mistake.

The guard flanked him. The Karen marched behind, gripping her middle son’s shoulder with one hand. She sat the kids at the bench by the claw machine, and pointed a sharp finger at the older girl with the slushie.

"Madison, you watch Brayden. Don't let him move or so help me God."

Milo brought up the rear, head down, shuffling in his grey sweatpants like a prisoner of war captured by his own side.

"In here," the guard said. He opened a steel door marked Authorized Personnel Only.

The room was a windowless cube that smelled of industrial cleaner and microwave popcorn. Along the back wall, a bank of monitors flickered with black-and-white feeds of the store.

He walked behind the metal desk. He tapped a key on the console to wake the terminal and casually clicked the mouse once.

"Sit," the guard ordered, looking up. "And let me see some ID."

To prove he had nothing to hide, AJ snapped the magnetic wallet off the back of his iPhone, withdrew his driver’s license, and slid it across the metal desk with a defiant flick.

"There," AJ said. "Happy?"

The guard caught it, glanced at the address, smirked at the photo, and tossed it back. "Arthur James. Seattle."

AJ sat in the plastic chair and crossed his arms, tugging up his polo sleeves to make sure his biceps were fully visible—an effort to show he wasn’t a weird creeper. He used protein powder. He had a personal trainer. He was hot.

He glared at The Karen.

"Lady, I already told you—I wasn't taking pictures of your kid. I’m just passing through on my way to the coast for the long weekend. I have zero interest in your offspring. I don’t even like kids."

"Shut up," she snapped. "Ricky, watch the door. Don't let him run."

"He's not running, Karen," the guard—Ricky—said. He leaned against the doorframe, resting his weight there, looking bored but compliant.

AJ’s brain stuttered. Karen?

He looked at the woman. The hair. The voice. The acrylic nails.

Her name is actually Karen? Are you fucking kidding me?

"I want to see the camera roll," Karen demanded, holding out her palm to AJ. "Now. Or Ricky calls the Sheriff."

AJ scoffed. He offered his own phone. "Go ahead. Call. False imprisonment is a serious tort."

Karen didn't blink. She turned to the guard. "And what's being a pervert in the toy aisle get you, Ricky?"

AJ’s stomach dropped. The Sheriff. An arrest record. He pictured his friends returning to work after the holiday weekend, without him. “Oh, AJ? He’s in a holding cell in Aberdeen. Solicitation of a minor.”

His life would be over. He’d have to move to Idaho.

Ricky didn't speak. He just shrugged. The movement caused his biceps to flex against his uniform sleeves, blue veins piping under taut skin.

"Fine," AJ spat. He pulled out his phone. "You want to see? Be my guest."

He unlocked it and shoved it at her. "Feast your eyes. It’s called… art."

Karen snatched the phone. The room went silent. The only sound was the hum of the vending machine and the aggressive swipe-swipe-swipe of her thumb.

AJ didn't need to see the screen. He knew the sequence by heart. He closed his eyes and pictured what she was seeing.

Photo 1: The wide shot. Milo bending over. Thank god the screaming toddler’s head was cut off—proof that whatever AJ was, he wasn’t interested in the kid.

Photo 2: The forearm flexing as he lifted the charcoal. The dad-strength, unfiltered.

Photo 3: The burst mode disaster. The sweatpants stretching. Ass. Ass. Ass.

Karen stopped swiping.

AJ waited for the scream. He waited for the slap.

Instead, he heard a wet snort.

AJ opened his eyes. It started with a tremble in Karen’s shoulders that spread through her body. Then the sound: not a polite laugh. A cackle.

She stared at the phone, then looked at Milo, who was trying to merge with the filing cabinet.

She erupted into a full-body, wheezing, knee-slapping explosion that bounced off the cinderblock walls. She had to lean against the metal desk to stay upright.

She laughed for a long time.

It was excruciating. AJ crossed his arms across his chest, uncrossed his legs, then crossed them again. Ricky watched with mild curiosity. Milo’s eyes—a little less drowsy now—darted from his wife to AJ, as if he were wondering what he’d done wrong this time.

"Karen?" Milo whispered.

"Oh my god," she gasped, finally coming up for air. She wiped a tear with the tip of a pink nail. "You... you weren't looking at Brayden."

The room was silent. Milo looked at AJ, confused. AJ looked at the wall, jaw tight.

"He's a sicko, alright," Karen wheezed, shaking her head. "But not for the kids, honey."

She turned the phone screen toward Milo. "He was checking out you."

Milo squinted at the screen. AJ imagined him seeing the photo of his own backside, framed lovingly by the Walmart shelving.

"Me?" He fumbled the baseball cap off his head. His dusky blond hair was messy and thinning a bit at the front.

"Look!" Karen yelled, showing the phone to Ricky. "Ricky, look at this! He thinks—oh my god—he thinks Milo is a pin-up! Milo! The man who gets winded putting on his socks!"

Ricky looked at the screen, then at AJ, raising an eyebrow. "Bold choice."

AJ scowled, his ego bruised on Milo’s behalf. "He has a very powerful... aura. You wouldn't understand."

Milo self-consciously sucked in his gut. "I... I used to play ball," he mumbled, running a big hand through his thinning hair.

Ricky looked at him. He gave a sharp, single nod. “Third Baseman for Aberdeen High, right?"

Milo perked up just an inch. "Clean-up hitter."

"I was a kid in the bleachers," Ricky said, a genuine grin breaking over his face. "Saw you hit that walk-off against Hoquiam. Bro, you were a beast."

Milo smiled, actually smiled, for the first time.

AJ glanced at Milo again. You must have been magnificent, he thought, his lust for the DILF not quite extinguished.

Karen wiped her eyes, the laughter fading into an annoyance. She checked her watch.

"Okay, look. This is ridiculous. The Real Housewives marathon starts in forty minutes and I am not missing the reunion special. I am not waiting for the Sheriff to come take a statement about you having terrible taste. Come on, Milo."

She seemed about done, but AJ couldn’t help himself.

"Don’t miss the clearance rack, Karen. I hear they have a special on 'Live, Laugh, Love' hoodies. Plus sizes.”

As soon as the words escaped his lips, AJ thought he might have gone a step too far. He wished—mostly—that he could take it back.

Karen stopped. Her head turned, her eyes traveled slowly over AJ’s polo, his expensive haircut, and his watch. She didn't get mad. She got calculating.

"Give me the phone," AJ said, holding out his hand. "I'm leaving."

"Not so fast," Karen said. She looked at AJ, then at Milo, who was staring at his shoes like a kicked puppy.

"Here’s the deal," she said, her voice dropping to a transactional tone. "Milo has been nagging me for weeks. He’s like a dog humping the furniture. I’m tired, I have three kids, and I don't have the patience for him humping on me like a dog in heat."

"Karen!" Milo gasped. "Jesus!"

"Quiet, Milo." She turned back to AJ. "You think he’s so hot? Fine. You take care of it."

AJ stood up, outraged. "It?"

"You know what I mean," Karen said, bored. She pumped into her mouth with a fist, tongue pushed into her cheek, mimicking a blow job. “I finish my shopping. You don't go to jail, Milo gets his rocks off, and I get to watch Housewives in peace, for a change. Everyone wins."

"What?" AJ said firmly. "I am not a roadside service station. This is extortion.”

Karen didn't argue. “Call it what you want.” She just looked at the guard. "Or Ricky calls the Sheriff. Tells him we caught a predator in the toy aisle."

AJ whipped his head around to Ricky. "You can't be serious. You're going to let her do this?"

Ricky didn't move from the doorframe. He just lifted those shoulders in a casual shrug—the shrug of a man whose pay grade was nowhere near enough to get in the middle of this.

"Sheriff plays cornhole with Milo on Sundays, man," Ricky said casually. "I wouldn't risk it."

Cornhole? AJ’s mind reeled. Was that a sport? A game? A euphemism? What Deliverance hell am I in?

He looked back at Karen. She was tapping her acrylic nail against her phone screen—Tap Tap Tap—a countdown. He looked at Milo, shoulders filling out his oversize tee, his big hands and drowsy eyes.

The choice was clear: The Sheriff, the arrest record, the end of his social life... or twenty minutes in a locked room with the Dad Bod of his dreams.

Milo turned a deep, beet red, but AJ noticed he didn't actually say no. In fact, his gaze dropped to AJ’s mouth for a split second before darting away.

AJ exhaled. "Fine."

"Smart choice," Karen said. She smirked. "I hear you guys do it best, anyway. Consider it community service."

She turned to the door. "You have twenty minutes. Milo, don't make me come back here and find him still frustrated."

She grabbed the door handle, then paused. She looked back at her husband.

"Keep your hat on. You’ll burn your scalp if you lose it."

She exited. The heavy metal door slammed shut.

Click.

Ricky reached over and threw the deadbolt.

The silence in the room was sudden and thick. AJ looked at Milo, who was still clutching his cap, looking like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

"Well," AJ said, adjusting his collar, trying to salvage a shred of dignity. "She’s... decisive."

---

🧢 Chapter 3. Community Service

The door clicked shut, locking out the world.

Milo stood by the filing cabinet, twisting the brim of his cap. "I... I can just tell her we did something. You don't have to—"

AJ didn't let him finish. He crossed the room in two strides, stepping into Milo’s space.

Up close, he could see creases at the man’s eyes, set in a surprisingly boyish face. The way his ears stuck out gave him a friendly, disarming look. He smelled of Old Spice and nervous sweat.

"Milo," AJ said, his voice dropping to a whisper—rough, but not unkind. "Shut up."

He reached out and grabbed Milo’s forearm—he didn't ask permission, just wrapped a hand around the thick, dense limb. It was solid under the soft, tan surface.

Milo gasped. "Uh?"

AJ pushed him backward until his calves hit the plastic chair.

"Sit."

Milo dropped into the chair. It groaned under his weight. He looked at Ricky, low-level panic in his eyes.

Ricky wasn't checking his watch anymore. He had grabbed a second chair and spun it around, straddling it backward. He sat with his legs spread wide, heavy boots planted on the linoleum, his meaty forearms resting over the back of the chair. He looked at AJ with a sudden, serious curiosity.

"Go on then," Ricky murmured, his voice low. "Let's see it."

That was all the permission AJ needed. He dropped to his knees.

He didn't bother with niceties—So, Milo is it? Come here often?

He grabbed the waistband of the grey sweatpants and the cotton boxers underneath and yanked them down together to Milo’s ankles. They came down smoothly, pooling over Milo’s chunky sneakers, and his pale, thick legs spread instinctively.

His cock sprang free from the fabric.

Whoa.

AJ paused. Milo was a seven-course meal with a twenty-minute reservation.

He was dense everywhere—meaty thighs and calves covered with pale blond hair, a plush stomach, and a cock that was already heavy and semi-hard, twitching against his thigh.

"Damn," Ricky breathed. It wasn't a joke; it was pure respect. "Look at the size of him."

Milo squeezed his eyes shut, still gripping the cap tight in his fist.

"Put it on," AJ said, flicking the brim. "If you lose it, she’ll say I did that too."

More importantly, it was the perfect finishing touch.

Milo obeyed. He didn't even think about it—it was pure muscle memory. He used both hands, his thick forearms flexing as he squared the brim low over his eyes and jammed the cap down.

It was so casual. So deeply male. That unthinking, utilitarian movement was more arousing than a thousand perfectly lit Insta-thirst traps.

AJ went to work.

He had twenty minutes, and he intended to use them all.

He wrapped his left hand firmly around the base of the shaft, anchoring the thick flesh to keep it steady. His right hand drifted lower, cupping the heavy, hairy sac.

He took Milo into his mouth, swallowing as much as he could.

Milo let out a gasp. 

AJ lubed him with spit, from base to tip, working it with movements of his jaw. The cock steadied, fully hardening. Whatever Milo thought of the situation, his cock had a very definite opinion.

AJ pulled off. His lips, like Milo’s erection, glistened.

"Milo," AJ said, working his jaw to loosen it. "Relish this."

With one smooth motion, AJ went down on it, his hand shifting to give his lips clearance to hit the pubes. He twisted his head, plunging deep, forcing the head down into the vice of his throat.

"Oh god," Milo groaned. "F-fuck."

AJ tightened his lips as he drew back, creating a dragging suction that pulled from the root. He didn't close his eyes. He looked up, locking his gaze on Milo’s face.

Milo peered down, eyebrows knitting up at the center. His face flushed, mouth hanging open.

AJ worked him like a mechanic stripping a bolt. He used spit—a lot of spit—letting it drip, luxurious and obscene, down the thick shaft, running off his balls.

Milo needed something to hold onto. His right hand came up, diving under his own faded brewery t-shirt. He grabbed his left pec, fingers digging into the flesh, kneading it.

AJ watched him touch himself, and a beast woke up in his chest. He made a low, animalistic snort against the base of Milo's cock, inhaling the dad musk.

"Yeah," Ricky whispered, leaning closer over the back of his chair, his eyes locked on AJ's technique. "Look at him. He knows what he's doing."

AJ hummed around the cock, the vibration travelling straight through Milo's spine. He tugged the balls harder. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive ridge of the head, then took him deep again, swallowing the length, nose buried in the blond pubes.

Milo’s other hand found AJ’s head. His fingers grasped at the expensive haircut.

"Don’t stop," Milo panted, his hand working frantically under his shirt. "Don’t stop."

"Ten minutes," Ricky warned, his voice tight. "Make 'em count."

AJ didn't stop. He sped up, the suction wet and loud in the quiet room. He kept his eyes locked on Milo, begging with his eyebrows, getting off on the contact with the hottest, most unwitting DILF in Grays Harbor County.

AJ started to sweat, the humidity in the small room rising.

He loosened his grip on the base, his throat relaxing enough to take it deep on each downstroke, slamming down to the root. He let his free hand roam up under the faded shirt, to the soft belly. His fingers dug in.

Fuck. It was firm. A solid Dad Core under the plush belly. His brain swarmed with visions of Milo—swinging a framing hammer, hauling bags of mulch—the briefest moments of physical freedom before the domestic drudgery swallowed him whole.

AJ whimpered around the thick cock, tightening his lips, working faster.

"Get it, man," Ricky urged, sounding like he was watching the bottom of the ninth. "Bring him home."

AJ wasn’t looking at Milo anymore. He was intent on his work, worshipping the hard muscle filling his mouth and throat, tugging the heavy sack.

Milo tightened the grip on his own pec. A seriousness crossed his face as his hips pumped forward into the hot wet suction, driving his hips like he was swinging for the fences.

"Fuck," he said, no uncertainty in his voice. No boy. All man.

His thick, pale legs went rigid, the muscles in those dad-thighs trembling violently. He threw his head back.

"FUCK!" Milo shouted.

Milo’s head flipped back and his hard-on went even stiffer and swelled.

AJ could almost hear the crack as the bat hit the fastball, somewhere in the distance.

The hot, bitter slop filled AJ’s mouth, his cheeks puffing at the flood as it surged into his throat. He swallowed fast, but before it was even down, the heavy, rhythmic pulse filled it again. And again.

He took it all, snorting for breath, swallowing fast.

When it finally slowed to a trickle, AJ took the wet cock in hand, milking out the last white dribble onto his tongue. He could see it only through tearful, bleary eyes. He lapped it from root to tip with the flat of his tongue, and then engulfed it again, sending tremors and jerks through Milo’s body.

"Jesus… Jesus Christ," Milo whispered, one hand still on his chest, the other trembling on the crown of AJ’s head.

When AJ pulled back, resting on his heels, Milo slumped back in the chair, hand leaving his chest, limbs sprawled. He looked ready to sleep for a week.

"Damn," Ricky whispered, and let out a low whistle.

For a long moment, the only sound was Milo’s shallow breathing and AJ trying to catch his own breath, wiping a stray drop from his chin with his thumb.

Ricky just shook his head, looking from AJ to Milo and back. He glanced at his watch—

A sharp rap on the metal door startled them back to reality.

"Milo!" Karen’s voice muffled through the steel. "I’m heading to the registers! The line is a mile long! Move your ass!"

Milo scrambled up. He nearly tripped over his sweatpants as he yanked them back up. He snatched the cap off his head to adjust it, then jammed it back on. He turned to look at AJ with wide, shell-shocked eyes.

"I... uh..." Milo stammered.

"Go," AJ said, his voice rough. "You were incredible, Milo. Hall of Fame"

A little generous, but the guy deserved the boost. A parting gift.

Good luck with that, Karen.

Milo froze, mid-step. He blinked.

Then he straightened, his chest puffing against the faded brewery logo.

"Thanks," he croaked.

Then, the spell broke. He unlocked the door and bolted.

The door clicked shut.

AJ exhaled, a long, shaky breath. He stood up, brushing the dust off the knees of his jeans.

Ricky kicked his chair aside and stood up. He looked AJ up and down and tossed him a roll of rough brown paper towels from the top of the filing cabinet.

AJ wiped the spit from his lips and chin, the sweat from his face, and tossed the wadded paper towels into the trash bin.

He grimaced. His own erection was throbbing against the zipper of his pants, hard enough to be painful. He adjusted himself, wincing. He needed to get out of here. He needed to drive the last hour to the coast, pour himself a massive glass of Sancerre, and maybe convince Julian to help him out later—Amari and Davis having closed the relationship, again.

"Well," AJ said, turning to the door, eager for the cool sea breeze. "Time to hit the road. Cocktail hour awaits."

He reached for the knob.

A heavy arm slammed across the doorframe, blocking his path.

AJ froze.

Ricky was standing right behind him. He reached over AJ’s shoulder and threw the deadbolt back into the locked position.

Click.

AJ turned slowly. Ricky drew his arm back. He was smirking. He hooked his thumbs into his duty belt, the uniform sleeves tights against his biceps.

"The lady said her husband could go," Ricky said. "She didn't say you could."

He nodded toward the plastic chair where Milo had just been sitting.

"Seat's still warm, city boy. Sit down."

---

📹 Chapter 4. Director’s Cut

AJ didn't sit.

He stood his ground, back pressed against the door, the hard steel of the deadbolt digging into his shoulder blade. He wasn't going to let this rent-a-cop order him around like a common shoplifter.

"Look," AJ said, trying to summon the authoritative tone he used with difficult clients. "This has been fun. A real cultural experience. But I have three friends waiting for me at a rental property that costs more per night than this building, and a bottle with my name on it. I need to leave."

Ricky didn't budge. He just leaned back against the desk, boots crossed at the ankles. 

"You can go," Ricky said, a lazy grin spreading under his mustache. “But you got a loose end.”

He didn't look intimidating—just looked like a guy who had finally found something interesting to do on a slow Friday shift. He pointed a thick finger at the ceiling corner. A small black dome camera stared back, its red tally light blinking a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

"That light? We’re recording. Digital case file," Ricky explained. "Every time I bring a suspect in here, I have to open an Incident Report. Right now, it's sitting on the local drive. But the second I close this file? Whoosh. It uploads to Corporate automatically. Permanent record."

AJ’s eyes widened. He glanced at the ceiling corner. A small black dome camera stared back.

His stomach soured at the realization that his first and only sex tape had been filmed in a Walmart security office in Aberdeen. Cinderblock walls. Low wattage fluorescent lighting. The blue-and-white 'Saving People Money' logo was probably visible in the frame, like a nightmare version of a Sean Cody watermark.

The Board of Directors would mock him out of the city. “Oh, AJ? He’s the face of the Rollback campaign now.”

Working title: Cleanup in Aisle 4. 

He shuddered.

"Public indecency. Solicitation. It's all on the drive," Ricky murmured. "But... files get corrupted all the time. Sometimes I hit 'delete' instead of 'save'. Oops."

AJ narrowed his eyes, catching onto the vibe. "Is that a threat?"

"Nah, man," Ricky laughed. "It’s an invitation. I've got four more hours of staring at empty aisles. You're the most excitement I've had all month."

Ricky pushed off the desk, his boots heavy on the linoleum.

"I saw you walk in," Ricky continued, unfolding his arms and sauntering closer. "I saw you circling Milo—like a shark, man. I saw you checking the angles."

AJ paused. He felt a flush of heat. "I appreciate aesthetics."

"Right," Ricky chuckled. He gestured to the grainy, black-and-white feed on the monitor, showing the two of them standing in the small room. "Well, now you’re in the frame. How's that feel?"

AJ looked at the monitor. The image was high-angle, distorted, and raw. It looked like evidence. It looked like pornography.

He looked back at Ricky, and the smirk on the guard's face told him they were thinking the exact same thing.

It felt... thrilling.

AJ dropped his arms. The air in the room shifted. This wasn't an interrogation; it was a negotiation between two men who knew exactly what the other was about.

"If I'm going to be in the frame," AJ said, his voice dropping, "I expect to audition my co-star."

Ricky’s grin widened. "Is that right?"

AJ nodded at Ricky's belt. "Show me what I'm working with."

Ricky didn't hesitate. He unbuttoned his uniform shirt, shrugging out of it to reveal a white ribbed tank top that was struggling to contain a massive chest. He tossed the shirt onto the plastic chair.

He reached back, grabbed the collar of the tank, and peeled it off in one fluid motion.

He tossed it aside. Now he was bare from the waist up.

AJ stared, trying to maintain his professional detachment, but it was impossible. Ricky was built. Really built. His pecs were bronze slabs, with quarter sized rusty nipples. His abs ridged and defined. He was tanned everywhere, a testament to days off spent in the sun.

Ricky went for his belt, but AJ stopped him.

"Wait," AJ said.

He reached over to the chair and grabbed the uniform shirt. He threw it at Ricky.

"Put it on."

Ricky caught it, confused, holding the heavy fabric against his bare chest. "What? The shirt?"

"Back on," AJ ordered. "Unbuttoned."

Ricky smirked, realizing the game. He slid his arms back into the sleeves. "You're a piece of work."

AJ grinned.

The visual was immediate—the heavy, official patches and the silver badge framing the raw, exposed skin of his chest, the cast shadow of his big pecs. 

"Better," AJ whispered.

Ricky went for his belt again. Click. He pushed his trousers and boxers down in one smooth motion. The heavy buckle hit the desk with a distinct thud, the stiff fabric pooling around the tops of his heavy black tactical boots, laced tight and planted firmly on the floor.

AJ’s breath hitched. Ricky was spectacular. He was fully hard, his erection jutting out aggressively. There was a stark tan line leaving a white stripe at his hips. A blue vein pulsed against the ridge of his lower abs, winding its way through the white skin and down into the dark bush.

"Well?" Ricky asked, posing slightly. "Pass inspection?"

"It's... adequate," AJ lied, his mouth watering.

"Adequate?" Ricky laughed. "Your turn.” He twirled his finger. "Strip."

AJ didn't hesitate. He kicked off his sneakers and shoved his jeans down. He pulled his polo over his head. He stood there in just his Hanro black briefs.

“Fuck.” Ricky looked him up and down, licking his lips. "I knew you’d be ripped under the designer clothes."

He reached out, hooked a finger into the waistband of AJ's briefs, and yanked them down. AJ sprang free, hard and leaking.

Ricky grabbed AJ by the waist and backed him against the filing cabinet. The metal was cool, but Ricky was a furnace.

"Legs up," Ricky said playfully, tapping AJ's ass.

AJ wrapped an arm around Ricky’s solid traps, raised one leg and then the other, locking his ankles behind Ricky’s massive thighs. They were chest to chest, cock to cock. The unbuttoned uniform shirt scratched against AJ's bare skin.

Ricky kept one strong arm hooked under AJ's ass, holding him effortlessly aloft. With his free hand, he gathered a heavy glob of spit at his mouth. Thwip. He spat into his palm, then wrapped his wet, slick hand around both of their shafts, binding them together.

"Oh, fuck," AJ gasped as the hot wetness slicked them instantly.

"Look at the monitor," Ricky growled against AJ's ear.

AJ watched the grainy feed—one man suspended, legs wrapped around the other, a tangle of limbs.

Ricky began to pump his hand, stroking both of them together. The sound was obscene—a wet, sticky schlock-schlock-schlock as Ricky’s calloused palm slid over their combined girth.

"Yeah," Ricky grunted, his hips snapping forward to meet the strokes. "We look good, don't we?"

AJ couldn't take the passive role any longer. He unhooked his ankles and slid down the front of Ricky’s body, his chest scraping against the uniform buttons as he dropped to his knees.

He took Ricky into his mouth. It was a tight fit—Ricky was thick, rigid. AJ worked him, using spit to slick the shaft, his tongue swirling around the hard, prominent veins.

Ricky groaned, his hands weaving into AJ’s hair. "Fuck. You do know what you're doing."

Ricky started to fuck AJ’s mouth, his hips snapping forward. AJ met him, tightening his lips with every thrust.

"Get up," Ricky suddenly commanded, his voice strained. "Turn around. Bend over the desk."

AJ scrambled up and bent over the metal desk, bracing his hands.

Ricky took two heavy, wide steps to follow, his boots dragging the pool of uniform fabric across the linoleum.

He moved behind AJ and spat heavily onto his own hand, lubricating his aching length.

Spit. Slap.

Ricky pressed himself against AJ’s backside. He slid his cock right into the cleft of AJ’s ass, gliding up and down in the track between the cheeks.

 “Fuck,” he groaned.

AJ moaned, pushing back against the hot, wet friction.

Ricky reached around, clamping one heavy arm across AJ’s chest to pin him, while his other hand grabbed AJ's cock. He pumped it ruthlessly, timing the strokes with the pistoning of his hard hips driving his slick shaft between AJ’s cheeks.

Squelch. Slap. Squelch.

The sound of wet skin slapping against skin filled the small room. Ricky pumped into him—his heavy boots digging into the linoleum for traction as he drove the heavy thud of his pelvis colliding with AJ's rear over and over, his chest pressing AJ down onto the incident reports.

SquelchSlapSquelchSlap.

"Come on," Ricky hissed in his ear, biting the lobe. "Cum for me. Mess up my desk."

Sweat broke out on Ricky, soaking his unbuttoned shirt and slicking against AJ’s bare back where they touched.

AJ didn't stand a chance. The combination of the view on the monitor, the rough hand, and the relentless pistoning of Ricky’s hips was too much.

"Fuck!"

AJ shattered. His hips bucked against the desk, his cock twitching in Ricky’s meaty fist. He shot a messy load in hot arcs that splattered across the cold metal surface.

The feeling of AJ releasing triggered Ricky. He groaned, his body going rigid. He drove his hips hard against AJ’s ass one last time and erupted—firing hot and heavy into the small of AJ’s back. It pooled there for a second before running in thick, slow stripes, over and between his cheeks.

They stayed there for a long moment, AJ panting, bent over the desk, Ricky leaning his full weight on him, face buried in AJ's shoulder, the wet sounds of their breathing filling the silence.

"Damn," Ricky whispered, finally pulling back and wiping his forehead. "That... that definitely beats the paperwork."

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🎬 Chapter 5. Post Production

AJ straightened up, his legs trembling. He grabbed a handful of paper towels and started to wipe the desk and himself down.

He looked at the monitor one last time.

Screen 4.

The feed froze on the aftermath. It showed a man bent over a desk, head hanging low, with a massive security guard pressing against him, dominating the frame. It was degraded, low-resolution, and gritty.

It was a masterpiece.

Ricky walked over to the console. He looked energized, a mischievous glint in his eye. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a blister pack of generic USB drives. He popped two of them out.

He plugged them both into the console, punched a key. 

TRANSFER COMPLETE.

Then he tapped another key. 

DELETE CONFIRMED.

"Main server’s clean," Ricky said, pulling the drives out.

He tossed one to AJ. AJ caught it—the metal was still warm from the machine.

"For your reel," Ricky said.

Then, Ricky slipped the second drive into his breast pocket, right over his hard pec. "And one for the archives."

AJ looked at the drive in his palm, then up at Ricky. Sir Veillance had come looking for a subject, but he’d found a collaborator. The watcher had been watched, and he had the footage to prove it.

"Joint custody," Ricky winked.

He turned to AJ. The dynamic was easy now. Playful.

Ricky reached out and ran his thumb over AJ’s swollen bottom lip. He leaned in for a final, lingering kiss.

"You taste like cheap coffee," AJ murmured against Ricky’s open mouth.

He reached up, finding the hard ridge of muscle under Ricky's unbuttoned shirt. He squeezed the nub of Ricky’s nipple, eliciting a sharp intake of breath.

"And you taste like trouble," Ricky smirked, leaning into the touch. "My favorite flavor."

They broke apart and dressed quickly. AJ pulled his jeans up, wincing slightly at the friction against his sensitized skin. Ricky yanked his trousers up, tucking in the tails of the shirt only at the back, leaving the front hanging open. He buckled his heavy duty belt with a decisive click.

"Get out of here, Arthur James," Ricky grinned. "Before I arrest you for loitering."

AJ ran a hand through his messy hair, slid his sunglasses onto his nose, and stepped out into the fluorescent brightness of the store.

"Hey."

AJ stopped and turned back.

Ricky was leaning against the doorframe. One thick arm reached up to hang from the top of the jamb, pulling the short sleeve of his uniform tight against his flexed bicep. His unbuttoned shirt fell open, framing his hard, tanned stomach.

He looked more like a centerfold than a security guard. A Latino stud playing a part.

"You’re heading to the coast, right? Ocean Shores?"

"Fog and Pinot," AJ sighed, trying to sound bored, though his knees were still weak. "Heavy on the Pinot."

"There’s only one road back to the city," Ricky said, his eyes dropping to AJ's waist and back up. "I work the closing shift on Sunday. Door's always open."

AJ paused. "I'll keep that in mind," he managed. "If the traffic is bad."

"Traffic's always bad," Ricky promised. His mustache twitched playfully.

AJ felt the hard plastic of the thumb drive in his pocket. He didn't need to come back. He was safe. He had the film rights.

He looked at Ricky—the tan lines, the smirk, the sheer size of him.

He pulled his phone out.

"Hold that," AJ commanded softly.

Ricky didn't move. He stared right into the lens, offering a cocky, knowing smile under that tight mustache.

Click.

"For the marketing campaign," AJ murmured, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

He turned and walked away. He felt lighter, looser than he had since leaving the city. He breezed through the store and out into the cool afternoon, stride lengthening, head held high.

He was halfway to his car when he saw them.

At a battered Honda Odyssey, Karen was bent over into the backseat, buckling a kid into a car seat. “Brayden! If you drop that toy one more time we will leave it here, I swear to God!”

And Milo.

Milo was loading the charcoal. He looked up and saw AJ. He gave that little helpless shrug—a sheepish gesture.

AJ lowered his sunglasses to look Milo in the eye, smiled, and kept walking.

Milo was sweet. Milo was a nice memory. But Ricky? Ricky was a challenge.

AJ got into his Audi. He checked his phone. A text from Julian: "We’re opening the Sancerre. You’re late."

He fingered the thumb drive in his pocket. He typed back: "On my way. Get the popcorn ready. I'm bringing the movie."

He looked up at the security camera mounted on the light pole. Stenciled on the plastic housing in block letters was CAM 1.

He imagined Ricky in the booth, kicking his boots up on the desk and switching the feed to Screen 1.

AJ tapped the brakes—three flashes of red taillights. A signal.

"Sunday," he whispered to the rearview mirror.

He’d be back. Not for the footage. Not for the leverage.

Just for the love of the game.

END

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