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The first time the thought of being a gun makes Caleb orgasm she still thinks he’s dead.
He’d been flailing at the edge of release, mentally cycling through his classic finishers (him on his knees for her, her begging him to stay, her with her hair up and her head thrown back…) when the thought strikes him like a flash bang.
Him as a cold machine, a living weapon, her slender finger looping into his trigger to…
He watches his come circle the drain in puzzlement.
—-------
When Caleb finally sees her again he’s coming to the idea more often than not.
He’s lost count of the number of times he’s promised himself to never think about it again, and mostly manages to keep it locked down unless he’s in those hazy moments before orgasm, like a guilty cigarette when drunk.
That's when lets himself think of the force of a shot ringing through his body, the violence.
The inert, perfect subservience.
It’s not normal, is it? Most guys think about fucking, not abstract concepts. He does also think about fucking at first, but then he’s back at the edge of pleasure, his cock leaking and sensitive. There's an internal tug of war every time, the gathering tension, the denial, and then giving in to thoughts of cold steel and his release comes like an eruption from deep in his core.
A machine would not feel shame.
She’s ever present in his fantasies, her finger on his trigger (which to him is obviously the gun's heart) sensitive as a violin string. Sometimes she's just holding him. Once, shamefully, he imagined her cleaning him. Her weapon.
But nothing gets him off faster than the idea of her pointing and firing.
—-------
Caleb had often conceived of himself as a machine. In the middle of routine weapon cleanings he’d often pause and just stare at his own hand, mid task. He’d imagine the fine internal mechanics of it, its own pulleys and wires.
Perhaps all military men feel this way.
As a kid he’d sometimes imagine himself as a mech robot in the shower, in for cleaning and repairs, or as a plane cutting through the sky.
Now as a soldier he is a pair of cuffs, a missile, a knife, but in his heart he will always be a gun.
—-------
She is getting increasingly frustrated with him, he knows he's been a lot lately, and while they prepare dinner together she's angry.
“No, Caleb, like this.”
She’s grown so much since they last lived together and like him she is now capable of wielding her own authority. All her soft edges are gone tonight and she grabs his hands methodically, turning the knife to the right angle, forcing him to slice in the correct way.
“Now you do it.”
The static bolts of arousal that he's worked so hard to control arc up his spine, he feels like his barrels are overheating.
Caleb obeys.
That night he imagines what it would feel like to be loaded with bullets.
—-------
He manages to get outside before he lets his expression crumple. Her angry fists pounding at the locked door behind him and he puts on his hat to protect his hair from the rain. He is so good at being the Colonel, excellent even! But with her it always feels like he’s playing a character, that he’s playing him wrong.
Caleb feels panicky in a way he can’t describe, and then all he can think about is an introductory lecture from Fleet Basic Training, the last time he felt this creeping fear.
Why do we never let a machine make the final decision, asked the professor, why should a machine never be in charge of a human?
—-------
One of the nights Caleb drugs her (he’s losing count), he does a routine inspection of her room and finds her neatly folded clothes on top of her hunter issued firearm. A military thrill goes through him at his suspicions being correct, and having done his duty to protect.
Hands trembling, he slides her gun out of its holster.
The night is cold and the metal of the grip bites at his fingers. It starts then, the slowly building waves of arousal like nausea and shame. He is afraid his heart is beating so loud it will somehow wake her. Gripped in a panic, he shoves the gun up the front of his shirt.
The cold of her weapon is soothing against his overly hot chest, so he holds it there for now. As he starts to calm he realizes that the cold of the pistol is permeating his chest and his own body heat is slowly warming the gun.
An exchange of thermal energy between her weapons.
He’s rock hard, but refuses to touch himself until he gets back to his own bed.
—-------
The force of his confession has hit their house like a tactical nuke and the air is filled with static potential. He keeps turning the whole helpless mess over in his mind.
What did he say, something stupid like ‘I can't pretend?’
Caleb locks eyes with himself in the bathroom mirror, something he usually avoids, and he lets himself think of all the things he actually wants to say.
Use me, I'm your weapon, your tool.
Without you I have no function, your life gives me meaning in a more real way than you can imagine.
I am inert metal, I am a series of pulleys and levers that without your input sits to rust.
I was made for you, your signature stamped into my metal when they forged me.
Use me.
Use me!