Capture & Surrender

by L. A. Witt

  Game this weekend, usual place/time. If you know anyone who wants to join in, bring them along! Geoff and Mike.

  He let the message sit in his inbox awhile to think about it. It was Thursday, and still somewhat early, and when he came down from the office, a few of his best people were still in the bar instead of off to hotels and flats and manor bedrooms.

  Including Stefan.

  Frank checked in with Raoul, who gave him the “Everything’s under control, boss” thumbs-up. Once he was up-to-date, he headed for his usual booth in the back. On the way, he stopped at Stefan’s table. “How are you getting on?”

  Stefan nodded and smiled wryly. “Getting it on.”

  “That’s what I like hearing.” Frank felt the urge to pat the man on the shoulder but didn’t; he barely touched anybody else, so that would look odd. And he certainly wasn’t going to stare at the camo trousers clinging tightly in all the right places, so he forced himself to look at the man’s face. Uniforms did things to him, and even worse when the man knew how to wear it and brought the attitude that came with it. Stefan was naturally at ease—he’d definitely been armed forces of some description.

  Frank was about to continue to his booth but paused. “You into playing privately, too? Outside of this place?”

  “Absolutely.” No hesitation.

  “I have an invite. A group of guys, no money changing hands. Secluded area. Starts as a paintball match, but it can and usually does turn into more for guys who’re interested. Everybody’s into rough play. Crowd’s mixed, from bankers to social workers, most guys in their thirties, a couple falling either way of that. Been going well the last few times I went there.”

  “How rough?”

  “It’s essentially capture kink.”

  Stefan’s eyes were bright.

  Frank went on. “Basically, you capture someone on the field, he’s yours. Capture a team’s flag? Your team gets the spoils.”

  “Spoils of war.” Stefan beamed. “I like it.”

  “Figured you might.”

  “Sounds like fun. When?”

  “Saturday afternoon. There’s the safety instruction and the guided tour, but we have the area for the whole day and into the night.”

  “I’m in.”

  “Sweet.” Frank did pat him on the shoulder now. No harm done, right? “It’ll be fun seeing you get your arse handed to you.”

  “Well, if I win”—Stefan had the slyest grin imaginable—“I might be doing more to your ass than handing it to you.”

  You won’t. Frank laughed, which kept him from choking on his own breath. “May the best man win, then.”

  Stefan said nothing, just fucking grinned at Frank.

  Frank left him to the johns and went back into his office for a few minutes. To deal with paperwork, of course. Not collect his thoughts or catch his breath or anything. Which was why he didn’t get any further than leaning against the closed door, thinking about this weekend.

  Stefan knew the rules. Frank didn’t get involved with employees. And besides, Frank had neglected to mention that he didn’t usually get out on the field himself. Or if he did, it was as a referee. Oh, he’d play a few rounds now and then, but most of the guys were younger than him, and he couldn’t sustain that kind of intense play for round after round like they did. He was in damned good shape for forty-one, but by the time these younger guys were breaking a sweat, he’d be ready to sit one out.

  Sit one out and watch Stefan play. Frank shivered. Few things could make a cocky son of a bitch in camouflage hotter than a paintball marker and mask. And maybe some mud on his uniform. A few leaves from crawling through the underbrush. Sweat mixing with dirt on his skin. The odd smear of paint and occasionally a little blood. Even better? A captured player kneeling at his feet.

  Frank shook his head. Paperwork. Definitely time to do some paperwork. Otherwise he was going to have to jerk off back here. That would inevitably happen some evening or another, but Frank wasn’t giving in yet.

  Maybe after this weekend.

  After he had actual memories of a sweaty, dirty, camouflaged—

  Work. Focus on work.

  The damage was done, though. He’d extended the invitation, and this weekend, his fantasy would become reality. Even if he couldn’t touch the man—and he wouldn’t—he’d still get to watch him. And with the crowd that came to the paintball field, he’d seen plenty of hot, hot things play out right there in front of him, so it didn’t take much to superimpose Stefan’s face and body into those memories.

  Closing his eyes, he felt around blindly for the doorknob. When he found it, he turned the lock. The click echoed through the small room like a starter pistol, and in an instant, thoughts of camouflaged men flooded his mind.

  They weren’t technically supposed to fool around on the field, especially not if it involved taking off their masks, but sometimes men got caught up in the moment, and it happened. And Frank had witnessed it a time or two.

  Pressing his teeth into his lower lip, he fumbled with his zipper as his mind’s eye showed him that time last spring when one guy dragged another down into a ravine. They were far enough from most of the action to be safe from enemy fire, but kept their masks on anyway, one pinning the other. Frank shivered at the memory of a paintball gun falling forgotten to the ground as a gloved, armoured hand restrained a camouflage-sleeved arm. Tactical vests brushed against each other, scratching and hissing like tearing Velcro, and a mask muffled a groan.

  Leaning against his office door, Frank stroked himself, eyes screwed shut, recalling the way the pinned man had squirmed and groaned as the victor stroked him, shielding his exposed cock with his body in case enemy fire came their way. It was fast, furious, almost violent, two soldiers stealing a moment before they ran back out into the war zone.

  Frank had only moved closer to keep an eye on things, ready to disqualify or give warnings, and instead watched those frantic moments. He hadn’t known at the time if one had captured the other or if they were lovers, but they were hot together. Though against the rule, he’d kept watch, hard in his own camo trousers, imagining the rasp of the gloved hand on his own dick, imagining struggling against the other man’s weight, breath caught loudly in the mask.

  In his office in the present, Frank imagined it was Stefan pinning him down, stroking him forcefully on a hillside in the woods until he had no choice but to come, and he bit back on the groan as he came into his hand.

  Frank wiped his face with his dry hand and cleaned up with a towel he kept with his sweaty clothes from the gym. Fuck. And the man he’d fantasised about was downstairs, pulling in clients that liked the exact same thing, making money for him.

  Thank God the weekend was only another two nights away. He confirmed the invite for himself and a “friend,” and Geoff wrote back asking whether he’d be judging and whether his “friend” was playing. Frank confirmed both.

  A night of fun and games, even if Frank merely tended to watch, making sure that rough post-competition play didn’t get rougher than people were okay with. Always keeping his eyes open, always making sure nobody got hurt more than they wanted to. Seemed he couldn’t switch that off, not even in his downtime.

  He caught his breath, did some paperwork, and hoped Stefan would be gone when he headed back downstairs.

  But Stefan was still there an hour later, picking up a drink (water?) at the bar when their eyes met. Frank got a little flustered. He’d just jerked off to the man’s image. But Stefan didn’t know that, right? It wasn’t like Frank had been taking something he should have been paying for, either.

  He composed himself and approached the bar. “Got the confirmation about the paintball game. It’s a go.”

  “Where do they meet?”

  “Do you drive?”

  “In London? Hell no.”

  Frank smiled. “Come by my place and I’ll take you along. It’s in the countryside. No buses, and we’ve lost a cab driver or two in the area.”

  Stefan whis
tled. “What did you do to them?”

  “Ah. That would be telling.” Frank patted him on the arm. “See you Saturday at noon. Raoul has my address.”

  Saturday came. Frank spent the early morning in the gym, then recharged with a full English—and a side of pills—at one of the greasy spoons near his house. He spent half an hour or so checking and packing his gear for the game, then got dressed.

  Geoff part-owned the paintball field, and the usual crowd was into it enough that they all owned their kit. Five of them were entering competitions, even, and winning, though they claimed all the trophies in the world didn’t make up for the things they could win on this battlefield. Frank had never got quite that involved; he only reffed, stepping in to play every now and then when the prize didn’t include carnal knowledge.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to fool around out there. He’d have sold his soul for a night with any one of the guys on either team. But sex wasn’t as simple as it used to be. Other people could do the whole casual thing. Not him.

  When the doorbell rang, he walked down the stairs, wearing his camos and armoured vest.

  Stefan stood outside in jeans and a normal jacket with a large green bag over his shoulder. “Hey. Think I can change? Didn’t want to freak out the bus driver.”

  “Sure.” Frank waved him inside.

  Stefan looked around. “Nice house.”

  “Outside London, you can buy something larger than a shoebox and have it done up properly.” Frank closed the door.

  Especially when your partner makes three or four times what you do.

  He’d been lucky in that way at least. Financially, he was comfortable, thanks to Andrew’s more-than-generous benefits package that had kicked in when he’d been diagnosed. Then, upon his death, the mortgage-related life insurance had paid out too, leaving Frank with a too-large, debt-free house and the capital to open Market Garden.

  Stefan dropped his bag and opened it, then pulled off his jacket, displaying that broad chest in the tight tee again. The thin silver chain around his neck looked like the real deal, too, and Frank’s gaze followed its outline under Stefan’s shirt to the distinctive shape of a pair of dog tags pressed against his chest.

  Stefan pulled a camo jacket from his pack and put it on, looking very much like the real thing, though there were no insignia or patches on the uniform. This was play gear.

  Frank forced himself to stop staring, then gestured for Stefan to follow him upstairs. The steps creaked under both their feet, and he tried not to think about how long it had been since anyone had been to the upper floor.

  He nodded down the hall. “Bedroom’s all the way at the end. You can change in there.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Stefan started towards the bedroom, and Frank cringed. It was weird enough having someone in this house—worse that he’d featured in a jerk-off fantasy. Frank shook himself out of his thoughts and went back downstairs. Moments later, Stefan joined him, this time fully decked out in camouflage.

  “You bring some lube and condoms? You’ll probably need them.”

  Stefan straightened and gave him a quirked grin. “Got it.” He patted the jacket’s front pocket. “Plastic zips to restrain, too.”

  Oh shit.

  “Pay attention to the safewords.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “Good. All right, car’s in the garage. I’m just getting my bag.”

  They dropped their equipment into the boot of Frank’s car and headed out to the field.

  “So you have your own gear?” Stefan asked, gesturing over his shoulder.

  Frank nodded. “That rental shit’s a waste of money.”

  “It’s usually crap, too.” Stefan laughed quietly. “At least in the States. Every time I played there, I think I spent more time fixing their shit than I did playing.” He eyed Frank. “Do they at least provide decent paint here?”

  “Best you can buy.”

  “Good. My marker doesn’t get along with cheap paint.”

  “Balls break in the barrel?”

  “That’s why I call it the Ball Breaker.”

  Frank groaned at the pun. “Cute.”

  Stefan sat a little lower in the seat, settling in for the ride. “So this is really a kinky paintball club or something?”

  “Basically.”

  “How the hell did something like that even get started?”

  Frank chuckled. “Bunch of guys who liked sex and paintball decided to combine the two.”

  “Okay, but how do you get sex and paintball into the same conversation?” Stefan glanced at him. “I mean, I like football too, but—”

  “Football? Or that shit you Americans play in tights and helmets?”

  “Hey. Hey. Fuck you.” Stefan laughed. “And yes, American football. But, like I was saying, I like football, and I like sex, but I never sat around with a bunch of guys and said, ‘Hey, let’s play flag football, but when you get someone’s flag, you also get his ass.’”

  “That could be fun, actually.” Frank rested a hand on top of the steering wheel. “If it wasn’t such a stupid sport. Rugby’s a lot more fun.”

  “You know, just for that, I am shooting you in the ass today.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  “What?” Stefan leaned forwards, eyes fixing on the floorboards by his feet. “Oh, hey, you dropped something.” He reached down, then withdrew his hand, middle finger up. “I believe this gauntlet’s yours.”

  Frank chuckled.

  Stefan sat back again. “Anyway. The origin of sex and paintball. Go.”

  “Okay, we had some guys with a soldier/military fetish.” Frank glanced over his shoulder before he changed lanes. “And there were some fantasies about capturing, being captured, stuff like that. So we kept trying to come up with ways to play that out, and eventually, someone mentioned it would be hotter and more intense if there was actually a sense of danger. Like, incoming enemy fire.”

  “Spoken like people who’ve never been in real combat.”

  Frank thought he saw Stefan shudder. “Yeah, well, we gave it a try, and it wound up being pretty damned hot.”

  Stefan looked right at him, and Frank was thankful he had the road to hold his attention. “So who do you like to be? Captor or captive?”

  He hesitated. “The ref, usually.”

  “Really? What fun is that?”

  Frank threw him a glance. “Spoken like someone who doesn’t know what forty-plus feels like.” That was an easy enough excuse, anyway.

  “Forty? You’re kidding.”

  “You’ve looked at me, right? I’m getting grey on top. I can still sustain an erection, but by gay standards, I’m from the bloody Stone Age.” As good a reason as any. The more good reasons he could find . . . “And I’m okay with that. Being twenty was shit.”

  “You’re fit. Fitter than several younger guys I’ve had.” Stefan paused. “Besides, I like older men.”

  Frank glanced at him. “Daddy fetish?”

  Stefan was silent for a few seconds. “I like confidence. You know, the kind that comes from being comfortable in your own skin and not giving a fuck about what everyone else thinks.” He turned to Frank again. “And, face it, man. You’re hot.”

  Frank swallowed. “I . . . thanks.”

  “So why the hell don’t you play?”

  Frank tapped the wheel with two fingers. “Because I don’t have the stamina to run around all night. I don’t get carried away. I make sure people are all safe, sane, and consensual.”

  “You ever get off? With somebody else?”

  “Done it. Know my way round sex, thanks.”

  Stefan laughed. “What do I have to do to get you out onto the field? A bet? Taunting? Challenge you?”

  Please God, change the topic. I’m trying to drive. “Check out the other guys first before you commit to entertaining gramps, all right?”

  Stefan fell silent next to him while Frank negotiated a roundabout and got the car onto the nar
row access road that would lead them to the playing field. It was tucked away between two wooded hills, and Frank was always a little surprised how rural Kent got once you turned your back to London and kept moving for a few miles. Farms, fields, and enough space to evade prying eyes. About five minutes later, he pulled into the cleared area they used as a parking lot. “I’ll leave you to Geoff,” Frank said as he selected a parking spot. “He’s one of the owners.”

  Stefan didn’t say anything.

  I think I managed to put him off with the self-pity. And I’m still his boss.

  He killed the engine. A couple of the other guys were already there. Geoff and Mike sat in their open car, Mike stuffing a McSomething into his face. One of those god-awful things that smelled intensely like no food smelled naturally.

  Geoff finished a bottle of Mountain Dew, crushed it in his hand, and tossed it into a plastic bag. They were decked out, faces already painted. Not that it was necessary thanks to the protective masks everyone wore, but Mike liked it. Considering those two were a well-to-do couple—one owner of a paintball business, the other a techie entrepreneur—with a house that featured three Russian blue cats and lace doilies on the loos, their martial appearance never failed to amuse Frank.

  “Hey guys.” He waved as he got out of the car. “How you doing?”

  Mike waved around a few fries, looking sheepish. “Don’t mind me. Haven’t managed to fucking eat anything. Had a release for a client at midnight and then shit went wrong.”

  “Same shit, different day, right?”

  “Mm-hmm,” Mike hummed around a mouthful of his McArteryDeath.

  Geoff eyed Stefan. “And who is this?”

  “This is Stefan, our American friend. The guy I mentioned in my email.” Frank lifted an eyebrow. “He’s promised he’s going to kick our pensioner arses. He’s done the real thing, apparently.” Set them up nicely—the result should be fun.

  “Correction, mi amigo.” Stefan put a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “I promised to kick your pensioner ass.”

  “Hey!” Mike gestured at him and Geoff. “What are we? Chopped liver?”

  Stefan shrugged. “Collateral damage?”