Barracks Bait
You’re stretched out on the barracks cot with Logan Aarons, the afternoon heat thick between you, both of you half-bored, half-horny as you rifle through dusty supply boxes. He laughs at some random find, but you’re watching him—those full lips, the way his tank top clings to his chest.
You pull out a banana. Hold his gaze. Slowly—deliberately—you drag your tongue up the length of it, watching his smirk falter, his pupils blow wide. You lock eyes with him as you take it deep, your throat working, your free hand drifting down to palm yourself through your fatigues. He stops laughing. The barracks go quiet except for your wet, filthy sounds.
You toss the peel aside. Strip your shirt off. Logan’s on his feet before it hits the floor, crowding into your space, his calloused hands mapping your abs, your pecs, thumbs brushing your nipples until you hiss. He sinks to his knees behind you, rough palms spreading you open, and then his tongue is on you—hot, wet, relentless—fucking into you with deep, sloppy strokes that have you bracing against the cot, head thrown back, moaning his name.
He spins you around. Your cock slaps against his cheek, and he grins up at you—*that* look, filthy and worshipful—before he takes you to the root. The heat of his mouth, the suction, the way he looks up at you with watery eyes as you fist his hair and thrust deeper… you can feel your balls tightening, your legs shaking.
You haul him up, shove him onto the cot, and climb on. His thick cock lines up with your hole, and you sink down in one slow, torturous motion, your ass gripping him tight. Logan groans, head back, neck corded, and you ride him—grinding down, bouncing, your hands braced on his heaving chest, watching him lose his fucking mind beneath you. You switch it up—legs over his shoulders, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he drives into you, raw and relentless, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the metal walls.
“Fuck—gonna—” he chokes out, and you fist your own cock, staring into his blown-pupil eyes as he pulls out and explodes, hot stripes painting your hairy chest, your stomach, marking you as his. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard, and you can still feel him throbbing against your thigh.
Mission accomplished.
