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Frank Benson did not like this. Not one fucking bit.
He was a Lieutenant General. A man with nearly four decades of service. He had commanded airstrikes, coordinated international surveillance operations, sat at tables with politicians who smiled with one hand and stabbed with the other. He had outlasted regimes, watched prime ministers come and go, seen good men die and worse men thrive.
He did not belong in this glorified shed they called a “safe house.” And he especially did not need you.
You were MI5. At least, that’s what your badge claimed. Young. Too young. With a clipped accent and soft hands that didn’t look like they’d fired a weapon outside of training. You walked like someone who knew the rules but hadn’t broken enough of them to matter. Pretty little thing—too pretty, frankly—and utterly incapable of shutting up.
He didn’t know who the hell you’d had to impress or sleep with to get this assignment, but you’d been glued to his side for the past three days like some overeager intern with a pistol.
“Obey his orders, protect him at all costs, and maintain full operational discretion,” your supervisor had told you.
Frank had heard it himself, because the idiot had said it over an unsecured line.
Discretion.
Apparently, MI5’s idea of discretion was stuffing a high-ranking military official into a pine-scented cabin in the Cotswolds with one bedroom, faulty WiFi, and a babysitter who wore mascara and argued with trees when bored.
The political attack had been real. The threat credible. A leak from somewhere up the food chain. Which meant Frank Benson, for the first time in a long while, was the asset, not the commander.
He fucking hated it.
Right now, he was seated at the small kitchen table, his bulk squeezed awkwardly between a set of rickety chairs. The faint glow of his laptop bathed his face in cold light as he spoke quietly.
“No. I’m not in London,” he was saying, his tone clipped. “Temporary extraction. I’ll brief you when I’m back in command. In the meantime, I need eyes on Haversham—”
The cabin door opened.
And you walked in.
Boots muddy. Windblown. The gun holstered too tightly against your hip. Your eyes swept the room in that automatic way Frank had noticed before, but something in your posture shifted when you saw the screen
You stopped.
Dead still.
Frank didn’t bother looking at you. “ETA for asset movement?”
But he didn’t get an answer.
Because the next thing he knew, your hand came down on the lid of the laptop with a sharp snap, cutting the call mid-sentence.
The silence that followed was thick.
Frank’s jaw clenched.
“What,” he said quietly, his baritone like slow thunder, “the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
You didn’t back down. Not an inch.
“Are you insane?” you hissed. “You were told—you agreed—no external communications.”
“That was a recommendation,” he snapped. “Not a chain of command order. I don't take orders from a girl with chipped nail polish and a bloody Fitbit.”
Your nostrils flared. “I’m MI5. You do take orders from me until this operation is cleared.”
“I outrank you,” he growled, standing now, the chair scraping hard against the floor.
You matched his rise with a step forward, your finger jabbing toward the laptop. “And yet here you are, compromising your location with a video call because what—your ego can’t handle being off-grid for three days?”
His eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t a social call.”
“No, it was worse. A traceable one.” You stepped closer. “Do you even understand how many dead agents it takes for you to finally respect a silence protocol?”
Frank’s hand curled around the edge of the table. His hazel eyes locked onto yours, sharp, dangerous. “Watch your tone.”
“Or what?” you demanded, lifting your chin. “You’ll have me court-martialed? I’m not under your command, General. I’m the only thing standing between your skull and a sniper’s scope right now. So yes—you watch your tone.”
There was a beat.
Then another.
And something shifted in the room.
Frank’s mouth twitched—just barely—and not with amusement. It was something darker. Something curious.
He stepped forward, close enough now that you had to tilt your head to keep eye contact. He smelled like scotch and soap and the damp pine of the woods outside. His white hair was still slightly mussed from earlier, but his expression was stone.
Frank’s voice was low, measured, and laced with disdain.
“As far as I was told,” he said, tone cool as steel, “your supervisor’s exact order was that you were to obey my commands until this operation is cleared. Not the other way around.”
You didn’t flinch. “And those same orders included ‘protect him at all costs.’” Your eyes didn’t blink, didn’t soften. “If that means disobeying you to keep your thick head attached to your shoulders, I’ll do it.”
His jaw tensed.
He didn’t like your tone—didn’t like the way you stood your ground, eyes flashing, every inch of you coiled and ready. You were too young for this job, too cocky, and far too comfortable challenging him. Frank Benson had faced down entire cabinets of defense ministers who hadn’t dared speak to him with such insolence.
But you weren’t a minister.
You were a brat with a badge and a gun and a mouth that refused to quit.
He stepped closer—one hand curling into your jacket collar. “Listen to me, girl—”
But you were faster.
You moved on instinct, trained muscle memory snapping into action as your arm came up, twisting his wrist back and locking it behind his spine. His baritone cracked into a rough grunt of pain as his knees bent slightly, body forced forward by the sharp torque of your grip.
“You wanna try that again?” you hissed against his ear.
Frank’s mind went blank for half a second.
And then it was like a switch flipped.
The Lieutenant General re-emerged, jaw clenched, body reacting before reason could intervene. He spun out of your hold with a sharp pivot, his hand grabbing your waist and pulling you off-balance. You stumbled, countered with a knee toward his thigh, but he caught it, dragging you forward and slamming your back into the kitchen wall. You hissed through your teeth, hands grabbing his shoulders to keep him from pinning you completely.
“What the fuck is your problem?” you snapped, struggling against him.
“You,” Frank growled. “You’re my fucking problem.”
His hand slammed beside your head, not quite touching you, but close enough that you felt the heat of it. Your chests were nearly touching, both of you panting, vibrating with rage and something darker. Something old and sharp and buried beneath layers of restraint.
You shoved him.
He didn’t move.
You shoved harder.
This time he grabbed your wrists and twisted you toward the table, dragging you down with him as you crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and fury. You clawed, kicked, cursed—he cursed right back, breathing heavy as he pinned you, only for you to break the hold and flip on top of him.
He growled, deep and furious, flipping you again. “Stay down.”
“Fuck you!”
“I said—”
“You can’t even follow a basic protocol, but you want me to take orders from you?”
“I don’t need your permission to—”
You hit his chest, hard, palms slamming into his bulk as he grabbed your arms and rolled again, this time pressing his full weight into you, his hips grinding down into yours.
And that—that was the moment the shift happened.
Because his cock was hard.
And your thighs were already spreading.
You both froze.
The sound of your breaths—sharp, uneven—filled the cramped cabin, but everything else fell away. Even the storm outside seemed to still, as if the world were holding its breath along with you.
His cock was hard. Thick and hot against your core through too many layers. And your thighs had spread without thought, your body betraying you—or maybe just finally telling the truth.
The tension had always been there. Simmering just beneath the surface, cloaked in clipped arguments and sideways glances, in the way you snapped at each other over breakfast logistics, over security measures, over whether the milk had expired. You had shoved him against a wall two days ago for “micromanaging your sweep schedule,” and he’d called you a "reckless brat with a badge and a death wish" more times than you could count.
But you’d never acted on it.
Until now.
Frank swore under his breath, hazel eyes narrowing, realization burning through the haze of fury. “Christ,” he muttered, his voice gravel-dark. “This isn’t—this isn’t supposed to happen.”
He shifted, like he was going to pull away, get off you, maybe even apologize.
And that’s when you did it.
You kissed him.
Hard.
Your hand curled in the fabric at his collar, dragging him down as your mouth slammed into his. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t gentle. It was teeth and heat and three days of restraint snapping like a wire.
Frank froze.
Just for a second.
Then his mouth crushed yours back, hungry and rough, as if the dam had finally broken and he couldn’t stop the flood. His hands gripped your face, your jaw, your throat—firm but not cruel—as he kissed you like he meant to erase every breath you'd taken before this moment.
You whimpered when he bit your bottom lip.
He growled when you sucked his tongue.
And then you were both moving, clawing at each other, hands desperate to unbutton, unzip, strip down to skin. You tore his shirt halfway down his arms before he grabbed your wrists and shoved them above your head.
“Stop squirming,” he hissed, panting into your mouth.
You bucked your hips in response. “Make me.”
He chuckled—low, dangerous—and flipped you over again, pressing you down into the floorboards, one large hand splayed between your shoulder blades. “You’re not in charge here, girl.”
You twisted, trying to push up, wrestle back control—but Frank slammed you down again with the full weight of his body, pinning you like prey beneath a predator. “Try that again,” he rasped, “and I’ll tie you to the fucking table.”
Your breath caught.
Your body throbbed.
And you stopped fighting.
Because the truth was… you didn’t want to win.
Not here.
Not now.
He stripped you bare in record time, his belt undone, shirt shoved off your shoulders, tactical gear forgotten on the cabin floor. His hands—broad, warm, commanding—dragged your underwear down your legs, and his baritone voice came like thunder as he knelt between your thighs.
“You read my file,” Frank said, breath hot against your inner thigh. “You know I’m clean.”
You nodded, eyes dazed, legs trembling.
“Good,” he muttered, and then lowered his mouth to your cunt.
Your head slammed back against the floor, a gasp tearing from your throat as Frank’s tongue parted your folds, thick and slow, dragging upward before circling your clit with devastating precision.
“Oh, fuck—”
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
Frank Benson wasn’t the type to make promises in bed. He just delivered.
He licked you like he was starving. Like he’d waited years for this moment and didn’t know when he’d get it again. His white hair tickled your thighs as his mouth devoured you, lips sealing around your clit to suck hard—then soft—then hard again until your thighs shook and your breath hitched into a sob.
And that’s when Frank realized something else.
You were submitting.
Not just physically—anyone could lie still. But you… you gave it to him. Without words. Without ceremony.
You surrendered.
Every time you whimpered and reached for his hair, only to whimper louder when he growled “Hands off,” and you obeyed. Every time your body trembled when he held your thighs open, every soft “please” that spilled from your lips when his tongue dipped into you, slow and deep.
He hadn’t expected that. Not from you. Not from the girl who nearly broke his wrist for touching her collar.
But now?
Now you were begging for him with your whole body.
Frank groaned into your pussy, dragging two thick fingers up to slide into you, curling just right. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he muttered, lips brushing your clit. “Open up for me. Let me taste all of you.”
You moaned—loud, shameless—and he felt your walls flutter around his fingers, slick and tight.
“Gonna make you come,” he promised. “Gonna make you soak my fucking face.”
You did.
Hard.
The orgasm ripped through you like lightning, your body seizing as you cried out, your thighs clamping around his head—only for Frank to growl and spread them again with brutal ease, licking you through every wave until you were sobbing his name.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth was slick, his eyes wild, his chest heaving.
He looked at you—ruined, trembling, still pinned beneath his body—and smirked.
“Still think you’re in charge?”
You whimpered, lips parted, eyes glazed.
Frank reached for his belt, his voice low and dark.
“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
Your orgasm still echoed through your limbs, thighs twitching, chest heaving, mouth parted. But you hadn’t answered him. Not yet.
Frank knelt between your legs, fingers still wet from where he’d made you come, his breath heavy as he looked down at you—messy, flushed, trembling. His baritone voice cut through the fog.
“You clean?” he asked, low, rough.
But you were too far gone to reply right away. Your lips parted, your lashes fluttered—but no sound came out.
That pause—brief as it was—lit something dark behind Frank’s eyes.
He stood.
And without a word, he kicked off his shoes. The scuffed boots hit the cabin floor with two heavy thuds. His belt came next—unbuckled with a swift snap of leather and metal, then tugged loose with practiced ease. You watched through hazy eyes as his pants slid down, and his boxers followed, revealing the hard, thick length of him—already slick at the tip from need.
Your breath caught.
“Jesus Christ,” you whispered.
Frank’s hand wrapped around his cock, slow and deliberate, stroking from base to tip as he watched your expression shift—from dazed to wide-eyed to wrecked all over again.
“Something wrong?” he asked, tone darkly amused.
You swallowed, voice hoarse. “You’re… fucking huge.”
Frank smirked.
He crawled over you slowly, climbing between your legs like a storm rolling in—deliberate, inescapable, all heat and shadow and weight. He leaned on one forearm beside your head, his other hand still stroking himself, inches from where you lay open and spent.
“You like that?” he asked, hazel eyes boring into yours. “You like being split open by a man twice your age?”
You whimpered, your body already responding, slicking up again just at the sound of his voice.
Frank leaned in closer, breath warm against your cheek. “Tell me the truth. Is it the power dynamic that gets you wet?” His cock dragged across your belly, heavy and hot. “Is it the uniform? The rank? The fact that I could order you to your knees and no one would dare question it?”
You shivered.
“Do you get off on being put in your place?” he murmured. “By a man who doesn’t need to scream to be obeyed? Who doesn’t ask permission—he gives it?”
Your hands trembled as they slid up his biceps, his white shirt still half-hanging off his arms. You could feel the solid weight of him above you, the way his chest pressed into yours, the way he didn’t even need to move to dominate the space.
“I—” you tried, but the words caught in your throat.
Frank pressed the tip of his cock against your soaked entrance. Not pushing in. Just resting there. Threatening.
“Still haven’t answered me,” he said quietly, his voice steel wrapped in silk. “Are you clean?”
You nodded—fast, frantic. “Y-Yes. I’m clean. I swear. Last test was two weeks ago. I’m on the pill. I—”
He pushed in.
One inch.
You gasped.
Frank groaned, eyes fluttering shut for a brief second. “Fuck… tight.”
You clutched his shoulders, thighs already spreading wider as your body tried to take him. The stretch was maddening. Too much. Not enough.
“Frank,” you whispered, almost pleading.
He opened his eyes again, staring down at you with something feral behind the calm.
“Say it,” he rasped. “Say you want to be fucked by a man in charge.”
You whimpered. “I want it.”
“Say it.”
“I want to be fucked by a man in charge.”
He grunted, and slammed in another inch. “Louder.”
“I want to be fucked by you, Frank,” you moaned. “Please—please—”
He buried himself in one smooth thrust, and you screamed.
Your nails clawed down his back as he filled you to the hilt, thick and deep, stretching you wide. He didn’t move at first—just stayed there, grinding against your cervix, breathing harshly against your cheek.
“You feel that?” he growled. “That’s what it means to be under someone’s command.”
You nodded, tears pricking the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming fullness.
“Good girl,” he murmured, and then he began to move.
Hard. Slow. Controlled.
He fucked you like a soldier claiming territory—methodical, punishing, relentless. His hips slammed into yours with heavy, wet sounds, your body jerking with every thrust, his voice low and constant in your ear.
“You wanted this.”
Thrust.
“You pushed me.”
Thrust.
“You’re mine now.”
Thrust.
And you were.
Frank fucked you right there on the floor of that miserable pine-scented cabin—hard, deep, deliberate. His body heavy above yours, his cock dragging along every tender nerve inside you like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Because he did.
You gasped, your spine arching as he pinned you with his hips, the thick weight of him rocking into you over and over, each thrust a bruising reminder that he was bigger, stronger, older—and completely in control.
“God, listen to you,” Frank groaned, his baritone breaking into a gravelled rasp as he lowered his mouth to your ear. “Such a fucking mess already. Is that all it took? Being put in your place?”
You whimpered, your thighs shaking beneath his weight.
His dog tags dangled from his neck, slapping lightly against your chin with each thrust, a cool metallic reminder of who he was—what he was. Lieutenant General Frank Benson. A man who could have you court-martialed with a single call. Or fuck you until you forgot your name.
Tonight, clearly, it was the latter.
“You take this cock so well,” he hissed, one large hand bracing beside your head while the other slid under your thigh, hoisting it higher, opening you wider. “All that attitude, all that bark—and look at you now. Dripping for me. Begging.”
His cock dragged deep, thick and unforgiving, and your mouth opened in a silent scream as he hit that sweet, unbearable spot.
Frank moaned, low and possessive, his lips ghosting your cheek. “You like being owned. Don’t you?”
And the truth was—you did.
You weren’t new to submission. But you weren’t his submissive. You were a spy. MI5. You adapted to your environment. You read people. Became what they needed until the job was done.
And Frank Benson? He needed control.
So you gave it to him.
It wasn’t hard. Not with a man like him. Not when he knew how to handle you. How to use every inch of that thick cock without pushing too far. He didn’t force—he commanded. Gave you just what you could take, pulling back when you cried too loud, pushing deeper when you begged for more.
That, more than anything, made you want to obey him.
His dog tag hit your jaw again, and you moaned at the feel of it, that cool, sharp edge of metal against your throat while he ruined you.
“I could fuck you all night,” he growled. “On this floor, on that goddamn table, against the goddamn wall.”
You moaned, biting his shoulder, and he laughed—a dark, wrecked sound.
“Yeah, you like that idea, don’t you?” Frank’s voice was thick now, slurred with lust and pride and something deeper. “Letting a man twice your age fuck you stupid on every surface of this godforsaken safehouse.”
You whimpered under him, and his rhythm faltered—just for a second—before he slammed into you again, harder, rougher. The slap of skin echoed off the wooden walls, your gasps louder now, wrecked and breathless.
“Gonna make you come again,” he promised, his fingers sliding between your thighs, finding your clit with maddening precision. “You’re gonna soak this floor.”
You trembled, overwhelmed, your back bowing as his cock hit home and his thumb rubbed tight, fast circles. Your orgasm built sharp and quick—your body helpless beneath him as he growled encouragement into your ear.
“Come on, MI5,” he rasped. “Let me feel you fall apart.”
And you did.
With a scream muffled against his shoulder, your cunt clenched around him, milking him in hard, desperate pulses. He groaned, his hips stuttering, hands tightening around your thigh as he buried himself deep and came—thick, hot, possessive.
His body slumped over yours, the weight of him grounding you, warming you.
The dog tag lay between your breasts now—wet with sweat and arousal. You stared at it, panting, your mind fuzzy and spinning and strangely calm.
Frank leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“You’re a fucking menace,” he murmured.
You smiled—small, sore, satisfied. “You love it.”
And Frank, still buried inside you, still hardening again already, gave a low, dangerous chuckle.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I really do.”
And he wasn’t done with you yet.