Chapter 6: Doug Dreams of Sara's Snacking
The humidity in Georgia clung to Doug’s skin like a second uniform. He lay on his cot in the shared tent, the nylon fabric sighing with each breath from the five other men scattered in the gloom. The training exercise was over, but the tension hadn’t left his body. It coiled low in his gut, a persistent heat unrelated to the climate.
His hand was already under the thin blanket, wrapped around his own hard length. He thought of his wife. Not of her smile or her laugh, but of the obscene, perfect ‘O’ of her lips around Jordan’s cock that morning in the living room. He’d watched her throat work, seen the tears gather in her lashes from the strain. The memory was a live wire. He stroked himself slowly, the friction delicious, his mind painting the picture in vicious detail: the slap of skin, the greedy noises she made, the way her eyes had rolled back in pure, slutty bliss.
The doorbell chimed, a jarring two-note song. Sara glanced at the clock. Eight PM. Doug was away for two more days. The house felt cavernous, silent in a way that made her skin itch. She’d been drinking a glass of chardonnay, wearing nothing but one of Doug’s old softball t-shirts. It hit mid-thigh.
She answered the door. The kid on the porch couldn’t have been more than twenty, holding a thermal bag, his eyes wide and immediately dropping to her bare legs. The scent of pepperoni and baked dough wafted between them.
“Uh, thirty-six fifty,” he stammered, fingers fumbling for the receipt.
Sara leaned against the doorframe, letting the hem ride up. She saw the flicker in his gaze, the Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin neck. Boredom and wine and the lingering ghost of Jordan’s taste made her bold. She took the pen and receipt, bending over the bag he held out to sign. The cotton of the shirt pulled taut against her ass, cool air kissing her skin.
“There you go,” she said, straightening up. His face was flushed. She held his gaze, a slow smile spreading. “You look thirsty. Want a glass of water?”
“I… I shouldn’t,” he murmured, but his feet were already moving as she stepped back, leaving the door open. He followed her into the entryway, setting the bag down on the hall table. The sound was final in the quiet house.
She turned. He was staring, frozen. Sara closed the distance, her fingers finding his belt buckle. It was cheap metal, coming undone with a quick snick. She didn’t speak, just dropped to her knees on the polished wood floor.
“Whoa, lady, shit—” he breathed, but his hands came up to hover by her head, not pushing her away.
She nuzzled the stiff fabric of his uniform pants, smelling cheap detergent and the sharp, musky scent of a young man. His cock was already a hard ridge against her cheek. She mouthed it through the polyester, feeling it twitch. Looking up, she locked eyes with him as she yanked his pants and boxers down in one rough pull.
His cock sprang free, long and lean, uncut and already beading at the tip. He wasn’t as thick as Doug or Jordan, but he was beautifully hard. “Fuck,” he whispered, a prayer.
Sara opened her mouth and took him in, swallowing half his length in one wet, deep glide. She loved this. The initial resistance, the gasp, the way his thighs trembled. She set a brutal pace, bobbing her head, her hands clutching his skinny hips, nails digging in. The sounds were filthy, loud gulps and choked grunts echoing off the walls. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking hard, tracing the vein with her tongue. She could feel his legs starting to shake, his breath coming in short, sharp pants.
“Gonna… I’m gonna come…” he warned, his voice strangled.
She pulled off with a wet pop, her lips slick and swollen. “Not yet,” she panted, getting to her feet. She led him, pants around his ankles, stumbling, to the living room couch—the same couch. She pushed him down onto it, climbed onto his lap, and impaled herself on him in one smooth, desperate motion. He cried out, his hands gripping her ass, fingers pressing into her flesh.
She rode him fast, the t-shirt rucked up around her waist, her head thrown back. Each slam down took him deeper, and the sheer, wrong novelty of it—a stranger in her house, in her, on her husband’s couch—made her clench around him. The delivery boy was past talking, just grunting, “Oh god, oh fuck,” his eyes wide with overwhelmed disbelief.
“Come in me,” Sara demanded, slamming down harder, feeling his body lock up. “Do it. Fill me up.” It was the command that tipped him over. He shouted, a raw, broken sound, and she felt the hot, sudden pulse of his release inside her. She ground against him, milking every last drop, a wicked smile on her face. When he was spent, she collapsed forward, breathless, feeling his spend already beginning to leak out onto her thighs.
Back in the tent, Doug’s fist moved faster under the blanket. He’d moved on from the memory of Jordan. Now he imagined her with someone else. Someone random. The pizza guy, maybe. He’d seen the delivery car earlier in the week. He pictured Sara on her knees, some pimply kid fisting her hair, fucking her mouth. He imagined her swallowing, then looking up with that glazed, satisfied look. The fantasy was so potent, so corrosive, he had to bite his lip to stay silent. The pre-cum slicked his path, his hips giving small, urgent thrusts into his own hand.
This went on for three days. The training was a blur of drills and exhaustion, but the ache in his groin was a constant. He lived inside the theater of his own mind, directing Sara in every depraved scene he could conjure. It kept him in a state of semi-arousal, a tense, frustrating need that his own hand could only briefly appease.
On the third night, he was particularly lost in it. The tent was dark, the others snoring or listening to headphones. He was on his side, facing the canvas wall, his blanket tented over his jerking hand. He was close, so close, picturing Sara being taken from behind by two men at once, when a shadow fell over him.
He froze.
“Can’t sleep either, huh?” A low voice. Miller. A guy from his squad, built solid, quiet usually.
Doug’s heart hammered against his ribs. He hadn’t heard him approach. He was painfully, obviously, caught.
Before Doug could mutter an excuse, Miller knelt beside the cot. His face was in shadow. “I couldn’t help but notice. Few nights now.” There was no judgment in his tone. It was flat, observational. The tent hummed with other men’s sleep. “You need a hand with that?”
Doug’s mind went blank. The fantasy of Sara was still blazing through his nerves, a live current. The need overrode every other instinct—shame, loyalty, sense. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Miller’s hands were there then, pushing the blanket aside. He took Doug’s thick, leaking cock in his own calloused grip, giving a firm stroke that made Doug’s breath hitch. Then Miller lowered his head.
The wet heat of another man’s mouth was a shock so profound Doug saw white behind his eyelids. It was nothing like his fantasy. It was real, rough, the scrape of stubble, a technique that was urgent and messy. Doug’s head fell back onto the thin pillow, a silent groan tearing from his throat. He couldn’t think. The image of Sara fractured, amplified by the raw, physical sensation of tongue on his cock. Miller sucked him with a grim focus, one hand working the base, the other stroking his own leaking cock which he'd pulled out of his pants.
It was fast and brutal. The coil snapped too quickly, the pleasure ripped from him in a tidal wave of release. As Doug's cock pulsed hot cum onto his tongue Miller swallowed it down like he was starving for it.
Miller stood up after draining Doug's cock dry, his own standing erect. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, giving Doug’s softened length a final, almost dismissive stroke before tucking himself away. “Better get some sleep, man,” he muttered, turning toward his cot.
Doug lay there, the humid air cooling the sweat on his chest. His mind was a silent, white blank. Then, a current—hot and liquid—moved through him. It wasn’t thought. It was a physical memory: Sara’s lips, Jordan’s cock, the delivery boy’s shocked face. Without a word, Doug sat up on the cot’s edge. The metal frame groaned. Miller heard it and turned, his eyes narrowing in the dark.
Doug leaned forward, his movements deliberate and smooth. He reached for the waistband of Miller’s sweats and pulled them down, exposing the other man’s stiff, thick cock. It was heavier than his own, curved slightly. Doug didn’t hesitate. He took the head into his mouth, tasting the salt of his own spend still smeared there. The flavor was foreign, musky and sharp. He pushed deeper, his throat opening reflexively as he swallowed Miller’s length down to the root.
Miller gasped, a choked-off sound. His hands fumbled, then settled heavily on Doug’s bare shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle. Doug worked him with a frantic, learned rhythm, copying what had been done to him. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, his tongue rubbing the prominent vein underneath. He thought of nothing but the mechanics, the filling pressure, the way Miller’s hips began to stutter forward.
“Fuck, yes… just like that,” Miller breathed, his voice strained.
Doug increased the pressure, bobbing faster, using his hand to twist at the base. He could feel the tension coiling in Miller’s body, the tremble in his thighs. He was relentless. A bitter, pre-cum slickness coated his tongue. Then Miller’s grip tightened viciously, and he pulled Doug’s head flush against his pelvis, holding him there. A hot, pulsing flood shot down Doug’s throat. He swallowed instinctively, once, twice, milking it dry until Miller softened and slipped from his lips.
They stayed like that for a moment, the only sound their ragged breathing mingling with the other men’s snores. Doug leaned back, wiping his mouth. Miller pulled his pants up silently, his eyes unreadable in the gloom. No nods were exchanged, no words. They simply retreated to their separate cots.
Doug lay back on the thin mattress, staring at the canvas ceiling. The taste, the act, the secrecy—it sat inside him, a dark, warm stone. His thoughts didn't race. They settled. He thought of Sara on her knees, and for the first time, he didn't feel a twisting knot of anger. He felt a strange, aligning clarity. Sleep came for him then, deep and dreamless.
Sleep came for him then, deep and dreamless. The humid Georgia morning arrived as a rude glare through canvas, the air already thick enough to drink. Doug dressed in silence, avoiding Miller’s eyes across the tent, the memory of the man’s taste now a phantom stain on his tongue.
The day’s training was a relentless march through pine scrub and red mud. It burned away the night’s strange residue through pure physical exhaustion. By late afternoon, their squad was packed into the dim, diesel-fumed belly of an MRAP, rumbling back toward base. Doug was given sentry duty, manning the roof hatch.
“Take a breather here,” the sergeant barked before disappearing into the command vehicle. The engine died, leaving an echoing quiet.
Doug climbed onto the bench seat inside the troop carrier and stood, threading his torso and arms up through the circular air sentry hatch. The world outside was a vast, green monotony of trees. Below his waist, he was inside the metal tube of the vehicle, its interior claustrophobic and shadowed. Only two others remained in back: Miller and a young reservist medic named Terri.
The silence below was palpable, a thick blanket underlaid with the muffled sounds of the other soldiers dispersing outside. Doug focused on the horizon, scanning the tree line with mechanical diligence. He could hear them, though. Miller’s low murmur, then Terri’s softer, hesitant reply.
“Come on,” Miller’s voice was a rough whisper, barely audible over the hum of distant generators. “Look at him up there. Totally zoned out. He’ll never know.”
“That’s fucking insane, Miller.” Terri’s whisper carried a nervous edge. “What if he turns around?”
“He won’t. He’s on duty. It’s just a little game.”
Doug kept his eyes fixed on a distant crow circling. His heart began a slow, heavy drum against his ribs. He knew this game. He had played a version of it himself, hidden in a hallway, watching his wife. A strange, cold detachment settled over him, a observational calm. He didn’t move.
He heard a soft shuffling of gear on the bench seat below him. Then, a touch, tentative and quick, on the back of his thigh. He tensed, every muscle locking, but he kept staring straight ahead at the endless green. Fingers fumbled with the button of his combat pants. He didn’t help, but he didn’t resist.
The button popped. The zipper descended, a slow, teeth-grinding sound in the quiet. Cool air washed over his skin. Then, a warm, uncertain hand reached into his boxers and closed around his soft cock. Doug swallowed, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the hatch. The hand stroked him, awkwardly at first, then with more purpose. He felt himself stir, thickening under the touch that was not his own.
He heard Miller’s encouraging grunt. “See? He’s into it. Now taste it.”
For a long moment, nothing. Then Doug felt a shift in the air behind him, a presence moving closer. A breath, warm and shaky, ghosted over the skin of his lower back. He felt his cock being drawn out, the fabric of his pants and boxers pushed down just past his ass. The conditioned air of the vehicle felt strange on his exposed flesh.
The first touch of her tongue was a flat, timid press against the side of his shaft. He jerked, a minute spasm he couldn’t control. A small, embarrassed sound escaped from below. Miller shushed her gently. “Just open your mouth. Take the head in.”
Doug was fully hard now, jutting out into the dim compartment. He leaned his forearms on the hot metal of the hatch rim, his gaze seeing nothing of the landscape. He felt her lips then, dry and uncertain at first, encircle the crown of his cock. She took just an inch into the warm, tight cavern of her mouth and held still, as if waiting for instructions.
“Suck it, Terri. Use your tongue.”
She did. Her inexperience was obvious, her movements clumsy. She bobbed her head a few times, her teeth grazing him lightly before she adjusted. But there was an eager, desperate quality to it, a willingness that soon translated into a wet, sloppy rhythm. Her straight red hair, he could sense it, would be swishing against the backs of his thighs. Her wide green eyes, he imagined, would be screwed shut in concentration.
Doug remained a statue above the waist, a sentinel. Below, his hips gave the faintest, involuntary push forward, sinking another inch of his length into that warm, novice mouth. A low groan vibrated in his chest, trapped behind his clenched teeth. The sound seemed to excite her. She took him deeper, her throat convulsing as she fought her gag reflex, a wet, choked sound bubbling around his flesh.
Then he heard Miller moving. A belt buckle clinked softly. “That’s it. Keep going. Just like that.”
He felt Terri pull off him with a gasp. “Wait…”
“Don’t stop,” Miller commanded, his voice thick. “Keep sucking his dick. Just arch your back for me a second.”
There was a rustle of fabric, the sound of pants being shoved down. A shift in weight on the bench. Doug didn’t dare look down. He stared at the crow, now a black speck against the bleached sky. He felt Terri’s mouth return to him, hungrier this time, her lips stretched taut around his girth. A moment later, he heard a slick, fleshy sound—spit, or something else—and a sharp, pained inhale from Terri that was instantly muffled around his cock.
Miller grunted, a deep, animal sound of effort.
Doug understood. The picture painted itself in the dark behind his eyes. Terri was on all fours on the bench seat below him, his cock buried in her mouth, while Miller positioned himself behind her. He heard the rough, rhythmic slap of skin on skin begin, each thrust jolting Terri forward, forcing his cock deeper down her throat. She gagged, tears now mixing with the spit soaking his shaft, but she didn’t pull away. The sounds were obscene: wet, choking sucks, the frantic slap of Miller’s hips against her ass, their ragged breathing.
“Fuck yeah, take it,” Miller snarled, his pace punishing.
Doug’s detachment shattered. A raw, electric heat exploded in his groin, racing up his spine. This was it. This was the core of the secret thrill that had been gnawing at him since the hallway, since the tent. The complete, debased submission. The animal coupling happening just below his sightline, using his body as an anchor. He thought of Sara on her knees for Jordan, for the pizza boy, and a blistering clarity struck him. He didn’t just want to watch her. He wanted this. He wanted her to be just like this girl, used and hungry, choking on him while being taken by another man.
The pressure coiled, tight and unbearable. Terri was moaning now, a high, broken sound muffled by his flesh, her body shuddering as Miller pounded into her. Doug felt her orgasm ripple through her, a series of convulsive clenches around his cock deep in her throat. The sensation tipped him over the edge.
He came with a silent, wrenching violence, his seed pulsing in hot, thick ropes down her straining throat. His eyes squeezed shut, seeing only the image he now craved: his wife’s face, tear-streaked and blissful, looking up at him from between another man’s legs. He pumped into Terri’s mouth until he was spent, until Miller finished with a final, guttural roar and collapsed against Terri’s back.
For a minute, the only sounds were their desperate, gulping breaths and the distant hum of the generators. Terri released him with a soft, wet pop and coughed. Doug slowly, carefully, pulled his pants up, zipping himself away. He finally looked down.
Terri was slumped on the bench, wiping her mouth, her fatigues around her ankles. Miller was buckling his belt, a satisfied, grim smirk on his face. He met Doug’s gaze and gave a slow, knowing nod. Terri looked up, her wide green eyes filled with a messy combination of shame, excitement, and fear.
Doug looked back at her, then at Miller. He said nothing. He simply returned his gaze to the horizon, his watch unchanged, the tree line unchanged, the crow now gone. Everything was the same. Everything was completely, irrevocably different. The taste of his own release, he knew, was still on the medic’s tongue.