Chapter 4
The thing I’ve been trying not to look at, not to think about, is right there in the open. Diego holds his cock loosely in one hand, already half hard. He spits a thick glob of saliva on the crown and smears it around with a quick twist of his wrist.
“See? No big deal,” he says, his breathing already a little heavier. “Just taking care of business.”
What am I supposed to do? What’s the normal guy’s response here?
It’s like watching a gun get loaded right in front of me. Part of me wants to run. To bolt through the trees and keep going until my lungs give out and I can’t hear the slick, wet sounds he’s making. The same sounds as last night, only now in broad daylight, with a face to match.
But the other part of me, the one that’s been getting louder every day, wants to drop to my knees and offer myself up. To open my mouth and let him shoot that weapon down my throat.
“Come on, mano,” Diego says, panting a little. “You’re not gonna just stand there and watch, are you? That’d be weird as fuck.” He grins, a flash of white teeth in his tanned face.
I am watching. I can’t stop watching. His cock is growing in his fist, getting thicker, longer. He’s using long, smooth strokes, from the base to the tip, twisting on the upstroke. He’s not shy about it. He’s proud of it. And why shouldn’t he be? It’s a fucking cannon.
But he’s right. It would be weird just to stand here and stare. I have to do something. I have to act like a normal, red-blooded American soldier, faced with a chance to blow off some tension with his battle buddy.
My fingers feel clumsy and stiff as I fumble with my rigger belt.
The buckle catches on the fabric, and I have to wrestle it open.
Finally, it gives. The buttons pop one after another, sounding as loud as gunshots in my ears.
My cock is already hard, straining against my briefs.
Of course it is. How could it not be, watching Diego stroke himself like that?
I pull it out, the warm air hitting the wet tip.
I’m embarrassed by how much precum is already leaking.
“Damn, bro,” Diego says, nodding. “You’re pretty fired up yourself, huh?”
“Yeah, well,” I say, my voice rough. “Twenty-three days. Like you said.” I spit in my palm and wrap my hand around my dick.
The sensation is electric. My knees feel weak.
I’ve been so keyed up, so full of tension, that even this simple touch is almost enough to set me off.
I have to grip the base hard to keep from coming right away.
I’m not as big as Diego. Not as long or as thick. He’s packing a shotgun, and I’ve got a standard-issue pistol. But he doesn’t seem to be judging me. He’s focused on his own task, his eyes half closed, his head tilted back.
We stand there, maybe seven feet apart, stroking our cocks in the middle of the woods. The only sounds are our heavy breathing, the slick, wet sounds of our hands on our dicks, and the buzzing of insects.
“See? Much better, right?” Diego breathes. “Taking care of the problem.”
“Yeah,” I manage. “Much better.”
“You think this is what they mean by camaraderie?”
I let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t think this is in the Army handbook.”
“Fuck the handbook. This is what guys do. Sometimes you gotta improvise. And I perform better after I blow off some steam.”
My eyes are glued to his cock, to the way his thumb smears the precum over the head on every upstroke, to the way the veins stand out on the shaft. I want to taste it. I want to feel the weight of it in my mouth. The hunger is a physical ache in my gut.
Before I know it, I’m stepping toward him.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even seem to notice. His eyes stay closed, lost in his own world, probably thinking about Maria and her incredible ass.
Now I’m only a few feet away. I can see everything. The dark curls of his pubic hair. The way his balls pull tight against his body. The bead of precum at the tip, ready to drop to the forest floor.
There’s no thought, just instinct. My feet move on their own, carrying me across pine needles and dirt until I’m right in front of him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin.
Diego opens his eyes. His stroking slows. “What’s up, mano?”
“Let me,” I hear myself say, not recognizing my own voice.
He looks confused. “Let you what?”
I don’t answer. I drop to my knees in front of him. Rocks dig into my knees, but I don’t feel them. All I feel is the rush in my blood, the pounding in my ears, the desperate, all-consuming need.
“Whoa,” Diego says, taking a half step back. “What the fuck, Adrian?” He’s still holding his cock, but the stroking has stopped.
I can’t look at his face. Can’t meet his eyes. I just stare at his cock, at the hard, angry-looking thing in his fist. “Let me do this for you, Diego. Please.” Then I open my mouth wide.
There’s a long silence. The forest seems to hold its breath.
I’m completely exposed, kneeling in the dirt, my own hard dick still out, begging my squadmate to put his in my mouth.
This is it. The moment everything falls apart.
He’s going to call me a faggot, a sicko.
He’s going to shove me away, and when we get back to camp, he’s going to tell Rourke, and I’ll be discharged before dinner.
“Fuck,” Diego whispers.
I brace for the punch. The shove. The burst of disgust and rage.
Instead, a hand grips the back of my head. His calloused palm presses against my buzzed scalp, holding me in place.
I look up. His nostrils flare. He’s breathing hard, a muscle twitching in his jaw. His pupils are blown wide when he pulls my head forward.
“Go on, then. Since you’re so fucking eager.”
The head, wet with spit and precum, bumps against my lips. The smell is musky and primal, the scent of another man’s arousal filling my lungs, making my head spin.
I let him push in. The smooth, hot skin slides over my tongue.
I taste the salt of him and feel the thick vein on the underside pulse against my lower lip.
I’ve never done this. I have no idea what I’m doing, but my body knows.
I close my lips around him, my tongue finding its own way, swirling around the crown, probing the slit.
“Jesus, Adrian,” Diego breathes, both hands now on my head, guiding me. His hips start to move, small, tentative thrusts. “Where’s this coming from? Fuck.”
I can’t answer. My mouth is full. I just moan around him, the vibration making him groan.
I grab onto his thighs, the rough fabric of his pants rasping against my palms. His cock slides deeper, the head hitting the back of my throat.
I gag, my eyes watering, but I don’t pull back.
I want more. I want to take all of him, to choke on him, to be used by him.
He gets the message. He’s not tentative anymore.
He holds my head in a vise grip and starts to fuck my face in earnest. Deep, steady strokes that fill my throat, forcing me to breathe in ragged gasps through my nose.
His balls slap against my chin. I’m drooling, saliva and precum dripping down my neck, soaking the collar of my shirt.
“Take it,” he grunts. “That’s it, mano. You want this so bad, then fucking take it.”
I look up at him. His head is thrown back, his face contorted with pleasure, the cords standing out on his neck. Sweat beads on his forehead, running down his temples. His uniform shirt clings to him, dark with sweat under the arms and across his chest.
This is real. This is happening. And the shame that should be consuming me is nowhere to be found. In its place is a soaring, triumphant feeling. A rightness. This is what I was meant to be doing. This is the thing I’ve been starving for.
The feeling of a big cock driving into me, over and over.
The sight of it disappearing between my lips, reappearing slick and wet.
The sounds of it. The slurping, the slap of flesh, the guttural grunts coming from Diego’s throat, the choked-off whimpers coming from mine.
He goes so deep I can barely breathe, my nose pressed into the damp, wiry hair at the base of his cock, inhaling the scent of sweat and musk and pure male.
He’s close. I can feel it in the way his thrusts turn erratic, the way he swells in my mouth, the way his fingers dig painfully into my scalp. He’s going to come. He’s going to come in my mouth.
And I’m ready for it.
I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
To feel the weapon fire. To swallow the evidence.
I want the proof of this, of us, all over my tongue, down my throat, in my gut.
But it doesn’t happen.
Because right as I feel the first pulse of his orgasm, a twig snaps in the woods behind me. A sharp, unmistakable crack.
Diego yanks his cock back, pulling out with a wet pop. It bobs in front of my face, still throbbing, a single, perfect bead of cum welling at the tip before dripping down.
I catch myself with my hands on the ground, my body suddenly cold, empty, and still on fire all at once. When I look over my shoulder, my heart slamming against my ribs, two figures stand about twenty yards away, half hidden by the trees.
They’re frozen. Staring.
At me on my knees, at Diego standing over me with his pants around his thighs.
My blood runs cold. The triumph collapses into a pit of ice.
It’s Buck and Emilio.
And they’ve seen everything.