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It’s early yet when Johnny bats his big blue eyes and announces, “It’s awfy dreich oot there the-day.”
Simon frowns doubtfully at the sun shining in through the windows of their little cottage. They’re on leave but it’s impossible to shake the deep-set routine from their bodies on such short notice so they’re up at the crack of dawn anyways. The sky is pink and orange, soft, and for once rain seems to be nowhere on the horizon.
“Wot’re you on ‘bout?”
Cedar floorboards creak at his love’s approach. A broad, tan hand splays across his chest, then dips so the tip of a pinkie finger plays at his beltline. Johnny’s other hand carefully takes Simon’s steaming cuppa from his hand, sets it aside. He bites his lip against any protest he might have about his tea going cold when Johnny’s warm breath tickles the hairs on the nape of his neck.
“Aye, it’s a day fur coorieing in under the covers, ye ken?”
Oh, Simon thinks. It’s silly in a way they can’t normally afford, playing coy. They’d had each other the night before in ways that would make the devil blush, and here Johnny was–asking for more.
A wave of arousal hits Simon so hard and fast he nearly passes out. God, does he want to give it to him, anything Johnny asks.
“Right,” he says, drawing out the vowel with grave seriousness. He knows Johnny wears a victorious grin, can feel it along with the scrape of teeth between his shoulder blades. The sergeant’s breath is already heavy, panting, as he presses the length of his body all along Simon’s back. “Dreary. Best stay in, then.”
They don’t make it to the bedroom.
Johnny takes Simon up against the wall, shoving his boxer briefs to his ankles. Simon only has time to step one leg out before Johnny’s on his knees, broad hands cupping and spreading his cheeks to have access to his hole.
The physical evidence of their previous activities had already been washed away in this morning’s shower (and why’d they even bother?). Still, his rim gives readily as Johnny eases his tongue inside. He hasn’t shaved yet and the scruff of his facial hair burns his sensitive skin as his jaw works to help lap at the quivering ring of muscle. Simon pulls at his own nipples with a low groan before he slides down his taught torso.
Simon’s hand is batted away almost the moment it circles the root of his throbbing cock. He feels it rather than hears it when Johnny growls like a mean dog someone dared to take a treat from. Johnny’s hand circles him instead and proceeds to jack him mercilessly. Slick sounds fill the room as precum gathers and slips down Simon’s cock, Johnny’s palm catching it to help ease the slide as he works his wet tongue even deeper inside.
There’s a pull at his rim as Johnny thumbs in alongside his mouth. It’s only the work of a moment to find his prostate and he presses on it insistently. Simon throws his head back and hisses at the ceiling, caught in the desperate war of fucking forward into the tight circle of Johnny’s hand and arching back onto his face.
“So fuckin’ braw,” Johnny gasps and stands. The rustle of fabric is brief; in his mind’s eye the lieutenant pictures the waistband slipping under Johnny’s furry, heavy balls, taught along his thick thighs. Too impatient to breed to get fully naked.
Simon’s head falls forward with a, ’Thunk!’ against the wall as he’s guided into a half-squat by powerful, calloused hands at his waist. A few very human taps at his hole, tacky with spit and precum. Johnny’s thick, blunt cockhead catches on his hole as he ruts against Simon’s ass. Slick streaks of precum gather and cool on his cheeks as Johnny grunts and humps him.
The thought suddenly strikes Simon; Johnny may be too desperate, too lost to get inside him before he finishes. Perhaps impatient, and just wants to blow his load on Simon’s back.
“Please, Johnny–fuck, please,” Simon gasps. He spreads his legs further to entice his lover inside, giving his hips a little wiggle. Fuck, if his squad could see him now; the big boy in the skull mask brought low at the thought of cumming without a thick cock in his hole. He keens and arches his back prettily, presenting himself, and earns a healthy slap at the fattest part of his ass for it.
“Tha’s it, hen,” Johnny drawls. Despite the breathiness of his baritone he appears unaffected. A spurt of precum paints the crease of Simon’s thigh where his own cock hangs heavy and useless as Johnny contines, “Tell me. Tell me how yer cunt aches fer me.”
“Need it, Johnny,” Simon growls, “Inside. Please, put it in–uuhn!”
Johnny slips inside, then pulls away again. Each time he presses in a little further with a sly little, thlck, thlck, the sound of his cockhead and precum fucking its way inside Simon’s body. He finds the sweet spot inside that makes the large man keen, and he whispers, “Tha’s it, good girl, sweet girl, take wot ye need,” as he’s taken to the hilt by Simon’s needy little thrusts as he fucks back onto him.
Their hips meet and they shudder through the initial seething rightness of it. Johnny palms Simon’s sides and coos praise into his skin. When Simon reaches back and clutches at Johnny’s thigh, he starts to move. Johnny’s palm finds the small of Simon’s back and gentles him into an even deeper arch just so he can bully himself as deep as possible. Simon grabs Johnny’s free wrist and brings his hand to his chest where the Scot can freely play with the thick meat of his pecs.
“The tits on you,” Johnny sighs appreciatively, rolling the sensitive nubs of Simon’s nipples between his broad fingertips, “I’d feck ‘em if yer cunt wasn’t so greedy…”
“Next time,” Simon pants, “I’ll let you cum all over ‘em, then lick ‘em clean.” He says this, all the while knowing it’ll never happen. They might play for a bit, Johnny’s cock thrusting between the forced cleavage of Simon’s chest; might even lap at his leaking cockhead as it appears at his throat as he ruts against him. Fuck, Simon might even beg for him to cum on his chest, on his face; but in the end Johnny spills where Simon always needs him when he’s the one on his back (or front, or against he wall).
Deep inside.
Where it might take.
God only knows when this particular fetish reared its lovely head, being talked to like a girl Johnny could knock up if they were careless. He doesn’t feel like a woman when he’s the one fucking Johnny; doesn’t feel like a woman in the battlefield. But when they’re like this, with Johnny’s cock thrusting away at his needy center, nothing turns him on faster or makes him cum harder.
Johnny knows. Johnny’s hand slides from Simon’s nipples, down his trembling abdomen, and parts his fingers in a “V” at the root of Simon’s cock.
“Need me ta play with yer little clit ta get off, doll?” Johnny asks, “Tell me, ‘cause I’m no' gonnae last with yer sweet wet cunt squeezin’ me like tha'.”
“Yes, yes,” Simon trembles. Johnny pulls away just to lick his hand and then his hand is back where Simon needs it, playing at his foreskin to gather the wetness there and tease the sensitive, purpling head of him. “Play with my clit, make me cum on your thick cock.”
It’s not the most inventive dirty talk Simon has in his artillery, but he feels floaty and ready to shatter at any moment. Instead he falls into mindless begging, begging for Johnny’s cum, to knock him up. Johnny too falls silent, the slapping of their hips meeting harder and faster, sweat-slick skin meeting again and again.
Simon’s orgasm takes him almost by surprise. One minute he’s teetering on the knife’s edge, floating in the achey, euphoric knowledge his man is going to get him there, and the next his cum is being worked out of him by Johnny’s skilled hand. His cock jumps, spurting cum against the wall, and again as he imagines Johnny forcing him to his knees to lick it up.
Of course, Johnny will do no such thing. Now that Simon got his, Johnny’s too busy chasing his own end to stop the festivities for Simon’s depravity. Maybe next time. For now, he uses Simon’s hole like nothing more than a fleshlight to pleasure himself. He growls, desperate to cum and frustrated he’s not quite there, nails digging into Simon’s hips.
“Fuck, fuck,” he murmurs, but can’t quite tip over the edge. Simon, having caught his breath, looks over his shoulder. Their eyes meet for a moment before Johnny’s fall to where they’re connected. A film of cream encircles the base of Johnny’s cock, precum and spit, and he shudders bodily–and doesn’t cum.
“Please, Johnny,” Simon whines. The desperate hitch to his voice is put-upon, not that Johnny minds or cares in his current state, but the undercurrent is ripe with very real oversensitivity. Simon doesn’t mind it, wants Johnny to get his, and thinks he knows how to get him there. He pushes his hips back to meet Johnny’s, keeps him deep, and begs, “Cum in me. Give it to me, it’s mine, please...I want to be your good girl. Breed me.”
Johnny stills with a moan pulled from the bottom of his feet. Simon wiggles, not to dislodge him, but to savor every jump of Johnny’s cock as he spills hotly inside.