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Johnny isn't sure how exactly they got to his flat. They had been at the bar— drinking, laughing, sitting a little too close. And then— then there was a tongue twisting with his. A strong, calloused hand squeezing him through his jeans, and a husky whisper in his ear telling him to move it.

The air outside of the bar was frigid as fall weather set in, but it hadn't been sobering. Not when Ghost was pressed hotly to his side, arm around his shoulder.

“I'll wrangle him home,” Ghost had said to Price. "Lad's had too much to drink. Threw up in the bloody bathroom.” Price had waved them off. And then—

And then they were here. Pressed against Soap’s front door with Simon trying to eat his fucking face. It seemed as if the man had no intention of getting to the bedroom, perfectly happy to suck face in the entryway. Simon shifted, there were hands on his hips and suddenly—

Johnny moaned, high and needy, as a thick thigh split his own. It put a delicious pressure on his aching cock, rubbing him just right through his jeans. He could feel Simon's length against his own thigh, tucked down into a pant leg and straining for freedom.

They were really doing this. Humping like virginal teenagers. And somehow, Soap’s never been harder.

Those deliciously broad hands on his hips pulled him forward before letting gravity drag his pelvis back down into the wood of his front door. Soap whined, an ear splitting sound that could be from some mutt. It was just a bit of friction, two layers of denim between them, and yet Soap was fucking dying for it. A horny teenage boy getting his first taste of pleasure. And Ghost, god. The way he manhandled him, like it was nothing? Like Soap wasn't a big, hefty man himself? It made him leak, a wet spot already forming at the front of his trousers.

He was going to cum like this, he realized as Ghost fucked him along his thigh once again. He was going to cum in his pants like a bloody teenager and he was going to like it.

“Ghost,” he moaned weakly, hands grasping for the lapel of the man's jacket. “Ghost, m'gonna—”

“Do it,” Ghost growled into his ear. His hips humped up into Soap's thigh at the same time Ghost pulled Soap up— and he was a goner. He yelped, pleasure bursting low in his belly so rapidly it nearly made him nauseous. His briefs were soaked, cock cradled in a bath of its own cum, trapped inside unforgiving denim.

Ghost was still going. Still humping up into Soap's thigh until— he shuddered in Soap’s hold with a low groan. Johnny could feel the wet spot between them growing, feel the minute jumps in Ghost's cock as he, too, came his fucking brains out.

Soap laughed, suddenly, overcome with the need to giggle like a teenage girl. “We— we never even got our shoes off.”

Ghost bit his neck, grumbling into the skin like a wounded mutt. “Shouldn't look so bloody good when you cum in yer pants, then.”

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Ghost was not a man with a lot of shame— or any, for that matter. What the military hadn't driven out of him, Mexico had. He'd learned that caring what other people thought was a useless venture. It didn't affect him— not truly. He knew his worth, what he was capable of. And at the end of the day his expertise was irreplaceable.

So, when something got under his skin, filled out his cock nice and thick until it was straining to escape the tight clutch of his jeans— he didn't care. He didn't take care of it, he didn't try to hide it. He went about business as normal. If he drew a few disbelieving stares at the sheer length of his cock along his thigh, what did he care? His eyes were on his head, not his cock. If somebody wanted to talk, they could look up at him just fine.

Price and Gaz had grown used to this behavior. They might tease or crack a joke here and there, but they learned to ignore the elephant in the room. Kept their gazes far from the girthy, pulsing length that was nearly as long as the Lieutenant's thigh. Johnny, though? Oh that poor, sweet boy couldn't take his eyes off of it when Ghost entered the room. He was a pup with a bone, truly. A drooling, eager little mutt who couldn't hide his interest.

And maybe Ghost was a cruel man. Someone who took pleasure in watching people crumble to pieces before him. Soap wasn't special in his ogling, his inability to part from Ghost's prevalent erections. He was special in how close he was to Ghost, how close he could get. How close Ghost let him get. So he hovered, and he watched the Sergeant’s carefully molded self control slip day by day as Ghost sought out his company.

It comes to a head early in the morning. Ghost had been enjoying a mug of tea on the rec room couch, dressed for the day and cock hard and leaking against his thigh. Soap had stumbled in after a rough night, rubbing at his eyes and mumbling under his breath. He had turned towards the coffee machine, but he paused, made eye contact with Ghost. Or rather, with Ghost’s situation.

“Sir,” Johnny choked, eyes wide, cheeks red. He looked eager— more than usual. As if a lack of sleep had dulled his already weak guard.

“Johnny,” Ghost rumbled back, spreading his legs a little wider just to see the Sergeant gulp.

Soap was quick in his approach. He did not hesitate to sink to his knees before Ghost, either. Here, where any early riser could walk in and see him. His hands trembled uselessly between his own thighs, hiding a budding erection of his own.

“Sir, I need—” Ghost raised a brow as Soap cut himself off with a whine. He was so red that Ghost might compare him to a tomato. “Let me suck you off, Sir, please.”

Soap was an eager pup at his feet, whining and wriggling and batting his big blue eyes at him. If Ghost was a lesser man, he would cave to such an offer immediately. He had every intention of taking it, of course, but he couldn't let Soap think he could be handed everything he wanted. He wouldn't spoil the brat.

“And why should I allow you, mutt?”

Soap drew back at the questioning, confusion muddling his gaze. Clearly, he hadn't expected an interrogation. He was a pretty little thing and he knew it. He was used to getting handed what he wanted.

“I said—”

Soap cut him off with a whine, scratching at the taught fabric over his thighs. “Because I can make you feel good? My throat is tight, and— and—”

“Bark for it.”

Soap’s face was so red hot that he was beginning to sweat. It lined his forehead and the ridge of his brows, coming to rest on his upper lip. But he had already debased himself. Already fallen to his knees to beg for a taste of the Lieutenant's girthy cock. How far would he go? Ghost was willing to bet that it was pretty damn far.

“Yip,” came quietly from the floor. Hushed and embarrassed. Pathetic.

“Louder.”

“Yip!” Barely a speaking tone. It wasn't good enough. Soap didn't mean it.

“I said louder.”

“Yip! Yip! Please, Sir— Yip!”

Good puppy,” Ghost chuckled. “Do you drool like a mutt too?”

“I can!” Soap said, far too eager for his station. “If that's what you want.”

Ghost's boot fit well between Soap’s thighs, right over his aching little puppy cock. Soap made a questioning sound before he was suddenly flat on his back, pushed over by the toe of Ghost's boot.

“You better make it worth my while, mutt. Or I'll take you to Price for attempting to consort with a senior officer.”

Soap pulled himself up quickly, shaking off the humiliation of being treated like a dog at his superior's feet. “Yes, Sir! Yip!”

Soap wasted little time crawling up between Ghost's legs to get at his zipper. Mercifully, he let the boy undo the button with his hands but he tutted when he reached for the zipper.

“Dogs don't use their paws, do they?”

If Soap had little puppy ears, they would be drooping, pinned back to his head. Reluctantly, he lowered his hands and leaned forward, mouth agape, to grab the small metal handle of the zipper with his teeth. He tugged on it, needing a few pulls to get it down far enough to be of any use.

Again, Ghost showed mercy by fishing his leaking cock out from his pant leg— hard and heavy as it drooped forward from its own weight. As much as he'd like to see Soap try with nothing but his mouth, he didn't fancy walking back to his quarters with a lapful of slobber.

Soap was quick to get his mouth on it, giving the blunt head eager little kitten licks. Ghost slaps his cock across the boy's lips a few times. He likes the way precum sticks to the pouty things in thin strings— like lipgloss.

“Well?” Ghost goads. “It's not gonna suck itself.”

Soap dives in, hands shaking where they grip his own thighs. He sucks in the head of Ghost's cock with ease, tonguing at his frenulum and suckling every drop of pre he could get. Ghost sighs and leans back into the cushions, arm thrown back over the couch. He idly pets over Soap’s scalp as he presses himself further and further down the girthy length— so much like a dog after a juicy bone. Ghost rolls his hips up into Johnny's mouth, makes him gag on it. The man pulls back with a heaving gasp, coughing wetly into his curled fist.

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself, clearly unused to sucking such a beast of a cock. But Ghost isn't a man with a lot of patience. He grips Soap by his stupid warhawk and drags his face back into his lap. Thankfully Soap gets the message, and he's throating him soon enough.

Ghost's groan covers up the sound of the door creaking open, someone finally come to get their morning cup of joe. Ghost grips Soap’s hair harder, fucks up into his tight little fuckhole of a throat. The little mutt is good, he'll give him that.

“Good morning?” Price's voice echoes from the kitchenette.

Ghost grunts. “Mutt begged for it. Needed to shut him up.”

Soap chokes, but Ghost keeps fucking up into his mouth, mot allowing a second to breathe. The boy is red in the face, tears streaming down his puffy cheeks. He's got snot and drool leaking from him in thick, nasty strings, wetting Ghost’s crotch.

Price hums as Soap retches, hands tapping desperately at Ghost's thigh. Still, Simon doesn't stop. He buries himself to the hilt again and again, watching as Soap's eyes get hazier from the lack of oxygen. Right before Soap goes limp, Ghost pulls out and jerks himself fast and hard. He cums over that wrecked expression as Soap gasps for air like a dying man.

“Good puppy,” Ghost praises mockingly. “Go wash up. You look disgusting.” Soap nods and moves to get up, and part of Ghost wants to tell him that dogs don't walk on two legs. He stays his tongue, however. He'd save that for another day.

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Ghost was not typical in the bedroom. He liked pain, he liked unusual play, he liked turning Johnny into a shaking, crying mess. His favorite way to do that was with his hands in whatever fashion he could manage. Bruises around his neck, friction burns on his cock, scabs along his arms.

Soap didn't often have a choice. Whatever Ghost wanted, he did, regardless of Soap's enjoyment. Which isn't to say it was all bad. The inability to choose, to escape, is what Soap liked about their dynamic. He liked the helplessness, the feeling of being used.

So, even tied up and begging Ghost to stop, that he couldn't do it— part of him was enjoying himself.

Ghost, of course, had tuned Soap out ages ago. His body could physically do it. He'd been working the lad over with the biggest sounding rods they'd had for days, and had a thick catheter in for the rest of the time. Soap's body was as prepared as it was going to get. Urethra puffy and agitated, stretched out far past its usual limits. A beautiful sight to behold— for Ghost, anyway. Soap just wanted to be able to piss normally again.

“Ghost… Ghost I cannae do it,” Soap whined. Ghost was occupied with shoving lube down his urethra with their biggest sounding rod— nearly as big as one of Soap’s fingers. Simon's were bigger, though. Thick and calloused with decades spent behind a trigger. Ghost, of course, paid him no mind. He had been deadset on this little idea of his since he dreamt it up on sex-filled night.

He had tried it then— that night. Had tried so hard to stick a finger down Soap's urethra that Soap began bleeding and came a fountain of it later that night. But no matter how hard he pushed and Soap screamed, his urethra wasn't trained enough. Was too small, had too little give. So Soap was allowed to heal, and then the training began. Soap hadn't left the house all week, too liable to piss himself with the catheter Ghost insisted on— to keep him open, always. For hours Ghost would play with his cock, soft and hard. Working their way up the growing collection of sounding rods until even the biggest catheter they could find was loose in him.

Soap didn't like sounding. It made him piss funny and it burned like hell. It also didn't feel particularly stunning. It felt more like pissing in reverse than a handy. But Ghost loved seeing how wrecked his cock could look, how inflamed his urethra could get, so he played with it often.

“Hush,” Ghost finally spoke. “You're going to take it. Or do you want another week with the catheter?” Soap was going to take it either way— but how much more could he put up with? 

Ghost hummed at Soap’s lack of response. A sort of self-satisfied sound that had Soap bristling, bound and unable to move as he was. The wooden chair creaked ominously as Soap’s shoulders tensed.

Ghost spend another long, quiet moment fucking the warmed metal rod in and out of Soap’s inflamed urethra. Appearing mesmerized by the simple motions. Soap could hardly feel it, if he was honest. He went numb to the constant play a couple days back.

Eventually, Ghost was satisfied with his work and drew back. His cock felt oddly empty once the rod was removed, and part of him wished for it back if only so that there was no room for Ghost to do what he wanted. He was not so lucky.

Soap squirmed as Ghost's index finger grew closer and closer to his weeping urethra. His skin was slicked with lube and ready to delve into one of the most intimate holes Soap had. But Soap was scared. Scared of the pain, the stretch. Scared that he'd never be able to piss normally again.

Still, Ghost didn't care.

“Easy, Johnny,” he grumbled as Soap's thighs tensed and tried to close, kept in place by the ropes around his calves. There was no escape, no stopping this.

Soap cried out weakly as Ghost put pressure on his puffy slit. It stung a little, even the slight breach of the very tip of his finger. There was no way he could—

“No!” Soap sobbed. “No! Stop stop stop!”

But Ghost kept going. Kept pressing in and down and— and—

Soap screamed as Ghost's finger was suddenly in him. It burned more than their biggest rod. Thick and calloused and too much for Soap to handle. The sharp pain triggered an orgasm from Soap, one borne of misplaced fear. He squirted hot strings of white and a few drops of blood around Ghost's finger— but most of it was kept inside. Kept locked inside of his cock to come drooling out slowly later. He'd be pissing cum for hours.

Ghost cooed lowly at him as he sobbed. It hurt so bad— too sensitive, too used, from a week of constant play. But Ghost had yet to have his fun, and his finger drew up inch by agonizing inch. Soap stretched forward to bury his head in Ghost's shoulder as his finger shot down rapidly once more. Fucking in and out of Soap’s sore cock like it was any other hole. Like it was made for it. Like Soap wasn't muffling screams into Ghost's neck.

There was a fucking finger in his cock, and Ghost seemed to have no intention of removing it any time soon.

Johnny was going to pass out. He was sure of it.

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