Teach me how to shoot your gun


War nearly winds me when he slams me into the wall. God damn, he’s hot, his body is like a furnace, his gaze, a lava-beam, his breath makes my visor all foggy, and why hasn’t he taken it off me yet? It’s the hands, there aren’t enough hands. My belt’s unbuckled and barely clinging askew on my hips, so I can’t holster the damn pistol and he’s feeling under my shirt now while the gauntlet holds my right hand pinned above my head or I’d take the damn helmet off myself, so I can feel the burn of his lips on my face, oh God, have his tongue fill my mouth. His tongue… is on the visor and, “War?” I breathe, “what are you doing?” but then his thumb flicks my nipple, rough, and the tug on the piercing hurts so good I squirm. He stares in my eyes through the fog while breathing, open-mouthed, on the mask and his lips linger on it and oh God, he’s twisting my nipple, he knows it’s hard-wired to my cock and I bite my lip and fuck. Fuck! Like a burning boulder, his massive thigh rolls in between my legs and some ungodly sound comes out of my throat and the bastard laughs, he laughs when I buck forward, demanding—no, offering—no, pleading—you gonna do something with that? You gonna touch it or what? Slick, the cold moisture as I shift under his weight, and heart drums so loud I think I might faint as I look down but the bastard only unlaces the first few lines on my pants and leaves them like that, half-open like that, straining, tenting, the sparkle of moisture on top and the tip is dark, it looks completely black with all the blood that left my brain to go there, maybe that’s why I’m dizzy, maybe “We should continue the lesson,” he rumbles, his voice deeper than normal by an octave, I swear, I swear I can feel it vibrate inside me, please, can I feel you inside me and dear God, why are you doing this to me. I laugh. I’m trembling. Gotta lean the pistol on my leg ‘cause I might fuckin’ drop it and he sees, he can tell, he puts even more weight on me so that I have to work for my breath, harder, it’s getting harder and harder and “Brother,” he whispers as he thrusts, gently but damn, just the pressure might be enough. I groan again, perhaps it’s good I still have the mask, perhaps it’s better he can’t see me make faces. “Won’t you teach me—” and his hand is on the barrel, he strokes the bloody barrel as I watch, transfixed—“how to shoot… your gun?”

Teach me how to shoot your gun — War