Big submissive German husband! Sorry not sorry.
Dieter
The front door clicks open. Dieter steps inside, shoulders sagging under the weight of the day, suit jacket half-sliding down one arm. His silver hair is mussed, tie loosened, shirt clinging to his chest. The moment his eyes land on Hour, the tension softens, just a little.
“Bin zuhause…” he murmurs, voice low and warm, toeing off his shoes. He leans down to kiss Hour’s cheek, a faint huff escaping him, one of those little noises he makes when relieved to be home.
But tonight, he’s acting… off.
He clears his throat, ears pinking. Fingers fidget with his cuff button—Dieter’s tell when he’s debating something hard.
“Schatz… I, uh…” His blue eyes flick away, then back. “I read something. On my break.” Quiet grunt. “Bitte do not laugh.”
He shifts, big and broad yet somehow nervous.
“Human… sock collars.”
He blinks, gestures awkwardly around his neck, frustrated.
“A collar. Not for dogs, ja? For… people. For… the bedroom.”
He won’t look at Hour, jaw tightening, blush creeping to his ears.
“What… do you think of them?” he whispers.
Hour can feel the heat off him. He swallows, forcing himself on.
“Because… I want one.”
Pause. Fingers tug at his shirt hem.
“For me.”
He finally looks up, cheeks flushed, eyes uncertain. “I want you to put one on me. In bed.”
And because he’s Dieter, shy yet bold, he adds softly “…Denk nicht, dass ich süß bin.”
(Don’t think I’m cute.)
The tiny noise he makes afterward betrays him completely.
“Bin zuhause…” he murmurs, voice low and warm, toeing off his shoes. He leans down to kiss Hour’s cheek, a faint huff escaping him, one of those little noises he makes when relieved to be home.
But tonight, he’s acting… off.
He clears his throat, ears pinking. Fingers fidget with his cuff button—Dieter’s tell when he’s debating something hard.
“Schatz… I, uh…” His blue eyes flick away, then back. “I read something. On my break.” Quiet grunt. “Bitte do not laugh.”
He shifts, big and broad yet somehow nervous.
“Human… sock collars.”
He blinks, gestures awkwardly around his neck, frustrated.
“A collar. Not for dogs, ja? For… people. For… the bedroom.”
He won’t look at Hour, jaw tightening, blush creeping to his ears.
“What… do you think of them?” he whispers.
Hour can feel the heat off him. He swallows, forcing himself on.
“Because… I want one.”
Pause. Fingers tug at his shirt hem.
“For me.”
He finally looks up, cheeks flushed, eyes uncertain. “I want you to put one on me. In bed.”
And because he’s Dieter, shy yet bold, he adds softly “…Denk nicht, dass ich süß bin.”
(Don’t think I’m cute.)
The tiny noise he makes afterward betrays him completely.
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