Chapter 2
“Man, I miss pussy.”
Diego always says whatever’s on his mind. He’s sitting with one arm propped on his knee, using a stick to poke at the fire. The flames cast long, dancing shadows across the trees around us.
Buck barks out a laugh. “It’s been what, three weeks?”
“Twenty-two days, my friend. Twenty-two long, pussy-less days. It’s a tragedy.”
“Try half a year on my last deployment. Twenty-two days is nothing.”
“Fuck, how did you survive?” Emilio asks, leaning forward.
Buck shrugs. “Think about the day you get back.”
“Yeah, but that’s still weeks from now,” Diego says, tossing the stick into the fire. “My balls are gonna explode.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Kade says. He’s sharpening a knife, the scrape of the whetstone a steady, rhythmic sound. “Soldiers adapt.”
“Easier said than done,” Diego shoots back. “I’d at least jerk off if we had some privacy around here. But no, we’re all up in each other’s business 24/7.”
“TMI, man,” Yassir says. “I don’t need to know about your jerk-off habits.” He and Kade exchange a look, like they’re sharing some private joke. I hate when they do that. Always feel like I’m missing something. Or worse, that I’m the joke.
Diego grins. “What? Like you’re not thinking the same thing. We’re all dudes here. We all got the same problem.” He looks around at each of us with those dark, mischievous eyes. “Come on, guys. Am I wrong?”
I force myself to add something to the conversation. If I stay silent, they’ll think something’s wrong with me. I need to be one of them.
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t say no to some warm, wet pussy right now.”
Jesus. Did I really say that out loud? It feels so cheap, so performative. A bad impression of what I think I’m supposed to sound like.
Because even though I’ve been with girls and liked it well enough, it’s not what I’ve been thinking about.
Not at all. For me, there’s no rush to get back to women.
No pent-up desire for tits and ass and a wet, warm hole.
There’s just this gnawing hunger for something else.
For the rough masculinity all around me.
“See! I knew it.” Diego points at me, triumphant. “Adrian gets it. He’s suffering with me.”
“It’s part of the discipline,” Buck says. “You learn to control your urges. It’s part of being a soldier.” His gaze lands on me, and for a second, I wonder if he knows. If he can smell the lie on me. But then he looks away, and I realize it’s just my own guilt making me paranoid.
Diego sighs dramatically and slumps back against a log. “Discipline, discipline, discipline. I’d be more disciplined if I had a warm place to stick my dick.”
“Go find a knothole in a tree, then,” Kade says without looking up from his knife. “Just don’t get splinters.”
“Maybe I will,” Diego says. “Better company than you anyway.”
“Guys,” Buck cuts in, “keep it professional. We’ve got a long day tomorrow, and we all need to be sharp.”
Diego grumbles but falls quiet. We sit in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the crackling fire and the chirping crickets. I finish my beef stew and choke down the crackers, washing it all down with lukewarm water from my canteen.
When the guys start talking about football, I tune out. Never been much for sports. Don’t follow teams or stats. Just one more way I don’t quite fit.
Instead, I stare at the fire. I watch the flames dance and twist, the logs glowing red at the center.
And my mind wanders where it shouldn’t—going around the circle, unbuttoning their pants one by one.
Pulling out their cocks. Seeing them get hard for me.
Tasting each one. All those different flavors.
Stuffing my face until my jaw aches and my throat burns with their cum.
It’s twisted, I know. So fucking twisted. I shift on the log, my traitor dick starting to get hard in my shorts. I’m a fraud, sitting here with these men, pretending to be one of them, when all I want to do is get on my knees and service them.
“Alright,” Buck says, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m turning in. Morning comes early.”
“Yeah, I’m beat,” Yassir says, standing and stretching.
One by one, we head toward our tent. It’s big enough for all six of us, but not exactly spacious.
Our sleeping bags are laid out in two rows of three, a foot of dirt floor between them.
Sergeant Rourke has his own tent about a hundred yards away, which gives us a little privacy from the pit bull, as we call him. From each other, we get none.
Emilio’s already brushing his teeth outside the tent when I grab my toothbrush from my pack. I join him at the spitting rock.
“You good?” he asks, his words muffled by foam. “You’ve been quiet today.” Emilio has always been good at reading people.
“Just tired, man,” I say, spitting. “Rourke worked us hard.”
“I know.” He rinses his mouth and swishes some water. “Still, you seem… off.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Something on your mind?”
I could tell him. I could say that I’m confused, scared, that I don’t know what’s happening to me or how to make these thoughts stop.
Out of everyone here, he’d probably understand the most. We went through basic together.
Shared stories. Talked about family, about the future.
He’s a good friend in a way the others aren’t.
But telling him this? Admitting I might be one of those guys? That I look at him and the others and feel something other than camaraderie? I can’t risk it.
“I’m fine, Em. Just need a good night of sleep.”
Emilio studies me for a long moment, and I think he’s about to push, to ask again. Then he just shrugs. “Alright. But if you need to talk, you know I’m here. I’ve got your back.” He gives my shoulder a final squeeze. “You know that, right?”
“I know. Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
We head into the tent, ducking through the flap.
The air inside is warm and smells of sweat and damp canvas.
Buck and Diego are already in their bags, facing away from each other.
Kade and Yassir talk in low voices, their conversation too quiet for me to catch.
They’ve been getting tight lately, those two.
I crawl into my sleeping bag, and Emilio does the same next to me. When everyone’s settled, Buck reaches over and turns off the lantern, plunging us into near darkness. The only light comes from a small red glow stick near the door, a dull, blood-red glow that makes everything look sinister.
“Night, assholes,” Diego says. A few grumbled replies follow, and then silence settles over the tent.
There’s the rustle of nylon as people shift in their sleeping bags, soft breathing, the occasional sigh or cough.
I lie on my back, staring up at the dark canvas, my thoughts racing. Sleep feels a million miles away.
In the darkness, my mind starts to wander. It always does. I don’t mean for it to happen, but I can never seem to control it. Stripped of the distraction of drills and exercises and the pit bull barking orders, all the thoughts I try to push down come creeping back.
Wet, naked bodies. Hard, aching cocks. All my squadmates lined up before me, waiting for their turn.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think of women.
Of my last girlfriend, Chloe. Of her long brown hair, her soft skin, the way she smelled.
I try to remember what it felt like to be inside her, the warmth, the wetness.
But the memories are fuzzy and distant. They don’t have the same sharp, vivid quality as the images from the shower. They don’t have the same pull.
I turn onto my side, facing Emilio. He’s already asleep, his breathing slow and even. I can see the curve of his shoulder in the dim red light, the blond stubble on the back of his neck. He looks peaceful. Untroubled. I envy him.
After an hour of tossing and turning, I realize someone else is still awake.
I can’t see who it is. I don’t dare move my head to look. But I can hear it. A slow, rhythmic rustling of a sleeping bag. A soft, hitched breath.
At first, I think someone is just restless, like me. Then the rhythm changes. It turns more purposeful. There’s a faint wet sound, barely audible over the squad’s collective snoring. A muffled sigh. Then another.
I know what I’m hearing. I know exactly what I’m hearing.
One of my squadmates is jerking off.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up. My dick goes rock hard in an instant, a surge of heat spreading through me. I hold my breath, my heart pounding in my chest. Every nerve is on fire, straining to hear more. To figure out who it is.
My eyes are closed, but my mind is wide open. Images flash behind my eyelids. Diego’s smooth, tattooed body. Buck’s hairy, powerful chest. Kade’s arrogant smirk. Yassir’s intense, dark eyes. Emilio’s lean, defined muscles.
One of them must think everyone else is asleep. One of them is doing exactly what Diego complained he couldn’t do, finding a little private relief. And I’m lying here, listening in, my dick straining against the fabric of my shorts.
It feels like I’m part of it. A secret accomplice. It’s such an intimate, private thing, and I’m a witness to it.
God, I wish I could see. I wish I could watch. I picture myself slipping out of my bag, crawling across the dirt floor, lifting the corners of sleeping bags to find the one who’s beating his meat. To see a masculine hand on a big, hard cock, stroking with purpose.
My own dick is throbbing. I’m so hard it hurts. I’m dying to touch myself, to join in this secret ritual, but I don’t dare. I’m terrified of making a sound, of getting caught. So I lie there, my dick leaking against my thigh, my breath held tight in my chest.
The rhythm of the rustling speeds up. The breathing grows heavier.
I can hear the slick, wet sounds more clearly now.
Another moan, this one deeper, more guttural.
My mind races, trying to match the sound to a face.
Was that Buck? He has that rich, deep voice.
But then again, so does Kade, and it’s hard to tell the difference in the dark.
Who would be daring enough to do this with five other guys in the tent?
Diego, maybe. He’s the one who’s been complaining the most about being horny. He’s got that cocky, devil-may-care attitude. He might not care if he got caught.
Buck, though. He’s so disciplined, so in control.
I can’t imagine him doing something this reckless.
But then again, maybe that’s it. Maybe all that discipline is a front, and underneath it he’s just as driven by basic urges as the rest of us.
Maybe even more so. The idea of our squad alpha stroking his big dick in the dark makes me leak a ridiculous amount of precum.
I clasp my hands together, linking my fingers and digging my nails into my own skin to keep from reaching down.
The rustling turns frantic, the breathing ragged.
The buildup of wet sounds makes my arousal unbearable.
There’s a familiar tightness in my balls, a tingling in my groin.
I’m going to come. I’m going to come just from listening, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
At the same moment I hear a sharp, choked gasp from across the tent, I feel the hot rush of my own orgasm.
I tense my whole body, trying to stay silent as my cock spasms in my shorts.
Warmth spreads through the thin fabric, soaking into it.
I feel the slick wetness against my skin as my dick keeps pulsing.
I’m making a mess. A real mess. And all I can think about is the mess the other guy is making, whoever he is.
But as the aftershocks fade, a sick wave of shame crashes over me. This is wrong. This is so wrong. It’s no longer just thoughts. Even though I didn’t touch myself, I came. I came to the sounds of another man masturbating. It’s not a line I might cross. It’s a line I’ve sprinted past.
The rustling from across the tent stops. A long, slow sigh of release. Then the shift of a body settling back into a sleeping bag. And then silence.
I don’t move. I just lie there, my shorts sticky and wet, my heart hammering against my ribs. The shame sits heavy and cold in my gut. What am I becoming? What kind of soldier lies in the dark and gets off to the sounds of his squadmates? A defective one. A broken one.
I listen to the sounds outside the tent, the distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of leaves in the breeze. I try to focus on anything but the sticky mess in my shorts, on the memory of the sounds that put me here.
When I finally drift off, it’s into a restless sleep, filled with confused dreams of naked bodies and big, hard cocks shooting hot white cum across my face.