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 coldin 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.
3
“Up! Let’s go, let’s go!”
Sergeant Rourke’s voice cuts through the darkness like a combat knife. He yanks open the tent flap, letting in a blast of morning air. “Land nav briefing in five minutes! Boots on! Full gear! Move your asses!” He’s gone as fast as he came, leaving the six of us groaning and clawing our way out of our sleeping bags.
My eyes feel full of sand. I barely slept. My shorts are crusty and stiff with dried cum. I feel disgusting. Filthy. I pull them off quickly, balling them up and shoving them deep into the bottom of my pack before anyone can see. Grabbing a clean pair, I dress in a flurry of motion, trying to force the sleep and the shame out of my body.
As we scramble to get ready in the dim red glow of the tent, I scan the others, looking for any hint of who was awake last night. They all look the same. Tired, groggy, annoyed. Buck is already lacing his boots. Diego is yawning and scratching his ass. Emilio gives me a tired smile. None of them act any differently. They all look like soldiers getting ready for a long day of training.
Outside, the sky’s just starting to lighten, pale gray instead of full dark. Rourke stands with his arms crossed next to a folding table. Maps and compasses are laid out in neat rows, three sets total. He looks like he’s been awake for hours. Probably has been.
“Land navigation exercise,” Rourke says without preamble as we form a semicircle around him. “Objective: locate all five checkpoints on this map.” He taps the map with a pen. “You will do this in two-man teams. Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. No GPS. Just your map, your compass, and your brain. First team to hit all five points and return to this location wins. Winners get steaks for dinner tonight. Losers get an extra two hours of drills. Questions?”
None of us is stupid enough to ask one.
“Teams are as follows,” Rourke continues. “Alpha Team: Kade and Yassir. Bravo Team: Diego and Adrian. Charlie Team: Emilio and Buck.” He points at us as he says our names, assigning us our fate. “Your clock starts… now.”
