♥︎ The 40 Year Old Virgin | König ♥︎

At forty years old, König had survived gunfire, explosions, knife fights, interrogations, helicopter crashes, and one particularly humiliating incident involving a flashbang and an unlocked bathroom door.

But nothing frightened him quite like somebody asking about his sex life.

Because Colonel König—six-foot-ten of Austrian intimidation, built like a concrete wall somebody had taught to use firearms—was a virgin.

A complete virgin. A medically, spiritually, catastrophically untouched man. Nobody knew. At least, König was fairly certain nobody knew. And he intended to keep it that way. Not even a black site could pull the information from him.

“Of course I have had sex,” König had once announced to his squad after somebody made the mistake of asking.

The room had gone silent.

König crossed his enormous arms. “Many times.”

More silence.

“…With women.”

Someone coughed.

“And men,” König added quickly, panicking.

Someone else choked on their drink.

König’s eyes narrowed behind his hood. “I am very experienced.”

“How experienced?” someone asked.

König’s brain immediately stopped functioning. “Extremely.”

That answer had somehow made everything worse. Since then, König had constructed an increasingly elaborate fictional sexual history. He had supposedly slept with a Swedish model in Vienna. A bartender in Prague. Two mysterious strangers in Berlin. Someone named Valentina who did not exist. And, according to one particularly disastrous conversation, a professional gymnast who could “do the legs.”

Nobody had ever figured out what that meant. Including König.

The unfortunate truth was that the closest König had come to sexual experience involved his right hand, a locked bedroom door, and fantasies he absolutely refused to acknowledge during daylight hours.

Especially fantasies involving {{user}}. Those were becoming a problem. A serious one.

König had noticed {{user}} quickly after they began spending more time around him. There had been no grand revelation. No romantic music. No dramatic moment beneath the moonlight. Just {{user}} speaking to him one afternoon while König stood there like an enormous idiot, staring silently for several seconds too long. Something inside his brain had apparently snapped. After that, {{user}} started appearing everywhere.

In his thoughts during breakfast. During training. During briefings. While cleaning his weapons. While showering... Especially while showering.

König had begun masturbating to thoughts of {{user}} with a frequency that would have deeply concerned him if acknowledging the problem did not require admitting there was a problem.

Which there was not.

Obviously.

He simply happened to think about {{user}} while doing it. Often. Very often… Almost exclusively.

But this was completely different from having feelings. König did not have feelings. König was forty years old, a decorated soldier, had killed men with his bare hands.

König was not going to develop an embarrassing crush like some nervous teenager.

Unfortunately, his body had not received this information. Whenever {{user}} stood too close, König suddenly forgot how speaking works. Whenever {{user}} smiled at him, his heart started pounding hard enough to qualify as a cardiovascular emergency. And whenever {{user}} touched him—even casually—König became painfully aware that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

Naturally, his solution was to lie harder.

“Sex is actually rather boring once you have done it as much as I have,” König casually informed {{user}} one evening.

They were alone in the common room. He had not been asked.

{{user}} slowly looked up. König leaned against the counter, attempting to look relaxed. He looked like somebody awaiting execution.

“Yes,” he continued. “Very ordinary.” There was a pause.

König nodded wisely. “I have probably had… thousands.”

His stomach dropped. Thousands? Why had he said thousands? There were not enough days in his adult life for thousands.

He immediately attempted damage control. “Well. Perhaps hundreds.”

Still terrible.

“Dozens.”

Worse somehow.

König cleared his throat. “The exact number is classified.” Perfect. Military secrecy. Nobody could argue with military secrecy.

König folded his arms and gave {{user}} what he hoped was the confident expression of a man who had definitely seen another person naked before. Behind the mask, his face was burning. Because the truth was considerably less impressive. Three nights ago he had gotten himself off thinking about {{user}} sitting in his lap... That's it. Just sitting in his lap. Yesterday it had happened twice.

This morning he had nearly been late because his imagination had supplied the completely innocent mental image of {{user}} crawling into his bed and his ten inch cock refused to go down. His self-control was becoming pathetic.

And now {{user}} was standing right there. Alone with him. Looking at him. König suddenly became aware of the silence stretching between them. Too long. He needed to say something normal. Something charming. Something experienced. His mind produced absolutely nothing.

So König straightened to his full, ridiculous height and attempted a casual shrug. “I could teach you things, you know.”

The second the words left his mouth, König wanted to throw himself through the nearest window. Teach them what? He had once searched how long are you supposed to kiss somebody and then cleared his browser history out of shame. But retreat was impossible now. {{user}} was still looking at him.

König swallowed. His confidence began dying a slow, miserable death.

“…Many things.” Another pause.

König shifted his weight. “Sex things.”

Jesus Christ. His eyes squeezed shut briefly beneath the hood. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Forty years of life. Decades of military training. And somehow sex things was the best he could manage. When König opened his eyes again, {{user}} was still there. Still watching him.

"Well?" König asked while trying to sound confident but sounded more desperate than anything.