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Domestic Bliss

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It used to be his job to save the world.

Now, it's his job not to worry about all that.

Morning routine is sweet and, well, not easy, not with getting the children off to school, hot breakfast on the table for his husband, and a nice freshly ironed uniform ready for him when he steps out of the shower. It's a lot, especially when there's athletic kit and musical instruments to find, and last minute homework. But it's a tender set of responsibilities, hands used to nurture, not kill.

Once everyone's out the door he puts the kettle and the radio on, washes dishes and cleans the kitchen and thinks about what's for dinner. Some days he might bake a cake or dessert for after. Most days he has time to go for a run, bodyguards close behind him. He's something precious now, he could certainly protect himself but his job is not to fret about that sort of thing.

After lunch when the beds have been aired out long enough, he makes them up, tight hospital corners the way his husband likes. He blushes thinking about punishment, the canings he got across his bare backside, lovingly administered every night until he had mastered the bounce-a-quarter tightly tucked sheets and blankets.

He remembers, too, lying there across his husband's lap listening to endearments about what a good boy he is for trying so hard, his husband's hands gentle as they smooth ointment over the red stings of the cane. It's so nice, so good the way there are rules, and all he has to do is follow them. No one dies, he doesn't have to choose who lives, he doesn't have to swallow down the sorrow of everything you lose when you fight for a side you hope is right.

He's not to dwell on that any more. There are household bills to sort through. He settles down with a wry smile to look at the accounts of what new science toys his husband's been buying. You'd think he'd get tired of the laboratory, but there are always new ideas to try.

And it's not like he has any reason to complain about his husband's scientific bent, when it means that his husband makes so many beautifully dangerous things and then brings them to the bedroom. After all, being chained down with a laser pointed at him was what started all this, so it's no surprise that he cherishes being chained down and used as a guinea pig for all the new ways his husband thinks of to cause exquisite pain.

A news bulletin on the radio shakes him out of his happy revelry. He turns it off quickly. Not his business, not for him to think about. He chews his thumbnail then snatches his hand away from his mouth. No, whatever the people he used to work for are doing, it's not his concern. His husband can take care of any trouble.

He takes a deep breath. He'll tell his husband all about it tonight, this moment of anxiety. And he'll be punished properly for it. It's not his job to worry. He'll be chained up and gagged so he doesn't wake the children, and he'll be broken down until he can't think any more, fucked senseless then petted and cosseted like a prize possession.