Fanfic: Release the Dogs (Part 3)
Title: Release the Dogs (The Third Thing That Happened)
Author: someonesgrlbomb
Rating: NC-17
Length: Part 1+2+3 ~18,000 words
Warnings: elements of dubcon, rimming
Pairings: Brad/Ray, Brad/Nate, Brad/Nate/Ray
Summary: A threesome-bound fanfic, in three parts.
Release the Dogs Master Post
The Third Thing That Happened
Nate came to, catching up to his body already fighting against something frustratingly overpowering on top of him right where he lay, belly down on his bedroll on the concrete floor. The weight was not yielding as Nate thrust all his force upward. He came to appreciate one reason for this was that his limbs were pinned and a blindfold was being pulled tight.
He calculated the amazingly low odds of enemy infiltration of the encampment in the cigarette factory, with his Recon Marines among them and Navy Seals guarding the roof, for fuck’s sake. Had there been time, his stomach was going to bottom out with dread at the possibility of mass murder, a silent chemical weapon, something horrible having happened to his men and the hundreds of other Marines settled there. He willed that the enemy bought this advantage with a fair number of their own lives. There was no other way to compute it. Only, how had he survived it, or even just slept through it? Since the invasion started, he hadn't been able to sleep through someone folding a map in the next room.
Whatever. Like hell was he going to go down, especially if it was now up to him to avenge even one Marine.
Nate registered that he was in a two-on-one fight. Fine. He tried sweeping his legs out from under the body pinning them but his move was anticipated and blocked. This guy had a large fucking frame and locked down Nate’s legs. Shit.
Nate turned his attentions to future dead man #2 - the blindfolder, sitting on Nate's forcibly outstretched right arm as he cinched up the fabric behind Nate's head. This other one was a smaller man, but capable of controlling Nate’s critically skilled and stronger right arm. Nate tried jabbing his elbow upward, flailing, rolling his shoulder for whiplike leverage, but like the bigger guy, this guy seemed to know Nate’s tricks, too. And…wait, was this second guy snickering as Nate struggled? Probably misinterpreting heavy breathing.
Nate had to admit, now about six seconds into this encounter, that he was outmaneuvered. For the moment. Had they wanted him dead, he’d be dead, so Nate conserved his strength and waited like a coiled snake for these guys to shift positions and create new opportunities for him to strike back. He had no idea what weapons these men had, and hell, he was just a lieutenant. He might not be worth all that much trouble if he started causing more than they wanted. Sure, he was an officer, but the joke would be on them if they hoped he would be of much intelligence value. He was not able to say what the fuck the U.S. strategy could possibly be other than blow shit up (buildings, civilians, whatever) and grab for medals and promotions. Nauseating.
But for the moment, Nate's silence was steadfast and defiant. At least he had that. He had little else worth holding onto in this war, other than the relief of not losing a man in his platoon so far, despite all the nearsightedness and glory mongering and flat stupidity of his commanders. So, at least in this most personal moment of battle Nate had engaged in yet, actual hand to hand combat, he felt he had his dignity and was fully in the fight. His personal honor as a warrior was intact as it was tested.
Two beats into Nate’s relative placidity, which hopefully came across as a menacing “I’m waiting for your next move to make mine, fuckers," there was a pause in the action, and Nate surmised the captors were silently communicating, as if presuming Nate would be able to understand their language. It was almost comical now how the military had not equipped him with adequate communication capacity to work with the people he would be trying to liberate. Nate understood - now - that he had been leading his men on a mission to distract from the main invasion forces, and with that as their true tactical identity, he could see the logic in their sending him a sub-par translator, if the options were indeed that limited. It was just like the Marines to be limited in resources that way. But it was also just like Marines to under-appreciate cultural considerations and squander an opportunity for them both to be a distracting force and to gain ground with the civilian population, both of which would help achieve the presumed overarching objective. Not to mention that if he knew the local language better, he might be better off in these situations, should these infiltrators break their silence and start talking to one another.
Fuck it, though. He would make do.
After the presumed nonverbal conference of the captors, Nate was lifted by his arms and pulled forward swiftly and flipped over. Nate tried flailing through the flip, hoping to surprise them by working with the momentum they generated, but they again fucking anticipated that and halted him. Semi-upright, his upper back hit what seemed like a lightly padded table that had to have been placed only a couple of feet in front of where he’d slept.
It was ominous that they would choose to stay here rather than nab him and scuttle off to safer ground. Nate feared a little more for the fate of his men, wondered about Gunny Wynn, who had been sleeping in the room with him last he knew. He was tempted to call out for Gunny, in case the same thing was happening to him a few feet away, but he didn’t want to give away a single fucking thing. Not yet. And he didn’t hear anything else happening in the room. He didn't think about whether that might be a really bad sign.
Each of his arms remained pulled away from him and held securely by each of his captors (dead men, dead men). He was pushed backward against the table until his back arched, but still on his feet, holding himself awkwardly up, body a crescent shape. The table smelled of old fine dust like all fabric they encountered in Iraq. Nate kept trying to flail his legs, but these men had his arms in wrapping lock grips that held him firmly - more precognitive countermeasures. Fuck, had his training not been as elite as advertised? Or was he truly up against the best?
He might have dislocated his own shoulders if he kept kicking. That might lead to escape, but there were too many unknowns at that moment to determine whether it would do him any good to try to escape from there with two useless arms.
Then the men were securing what felt like zip cuffs around his wrists and linking them to something - his right arm stretched out and on top of the table, wrist just jutting over the edge, cuff linked to some unknown thing. His left arm dangled down toward the floor from his shoulder socket and was secured to something down there, maybe the table leg but it didn’t slide vertically, so it wasn’t clear. Once his arms were secured, he only had about two inches of vertical leverage to lift his head.
The situation was quite a challenge, but Nate was not scared. Training subverted that circuit. Sure, his heart rate was up. Adrenaline kicked in, but that was a good thing, would help him with bursts of strength in this most critical of tests. Nate might have chuckled at himself for labeling it habitually as such, but his focus was sharpened in a way he relished, felt comfortable with, perhaps even felt was why he had enlisted in the first place and was drawn to combat elitism. Just exactly for this moment. And he was cocky enough (brainwashed enough?) to remain certain that he would come up with the right combination of strategy and strength and technique and timing to defeat these enemies.
The larger man had moved on to control Nate’s legs after getting the arm he was in charge of locked down. He seemed to be kneeling and wrapping his arms around Nate’s lower legs, squeezing them together. He was oddly gentle, patiently gaining control without inflicting pain. Most of Nate’s sparring exercises lent themselves to far rougher treatment. It was eerily reassuring Nate was apparently not to be hurt. The man then seemed to demonstrate arrogant patience for Nate testing the cuffs as he jerked every direction he could, and did nothing to stop him. Motherfucker.
Nate surmised the second man was responsible for the sound of metal dragging toward them, and then Nate’s legs were lifted and the table was pushed under them. The table was not quite as tall as the one under his shoulders, and there was about a foot of space where his back was not supported between these two tables. But at least Nate was no longer arching backward and using lots of strength to hold his weight and struggle against his captors with his legs. Yet now he was newly concerned, vulnerably exposed, belly up, arms outstretched, like being crucified lying down. The situation was going from bad to worse. Nate was, he had to admit, sweating a little.
Just as Nate was to begin a new campaign trying to whip his legs away from the larger man’s control, the smaller man came and held down his ankles, and the larger man leaned forward across Nate’s thighs, altogether trapping him. Then, oh shit, was unbuckling Nate’s belt and opening his fly.
This was rapidly becoming as nightmarish as Nate could imagine. It had all happened so fast, so coldly, so clearly designed to get to this point. Nate braced for humiliation tactics or torture. Recalled his million dollar training. Hu-ruh. Prepare. Fuck. Them.
"You might want to stop struggling so much now, sir. It won’t get you anywhere. Ready, Ray?"
“Yeah. You are such a sick fuck, Brad. Go ahead.”
Nate stopped breathing, not believing his ears.
Brad (large man) lifted Nate’s hips up, allowing Ray (smaller man) to grab Nate’s pants and briefs and pull them swiftly down to his ankles, creating a leg entrapment of sorts.
But holy fuck, Nate's brain was NOT concerned with his new level of bondage. Rather, the world narrowed to just the frequencies comprising those voices. Nate submitted them to his memory for analysis and re-analysis. The match was accurate. One was Brad Colbert, Nate’s best team leader. The Iceman. Yes, it had been his large body pressing and holding and binding him and being kinder than an enemy captor should be. Brad. Able to anticipate Nate's moves because they were his moves too. The enlisted Marine Nate held in highest esteem, kept his eye on most for confidence and commiseration, probably to the point of crossing the officer/enlisted man line...but things had become so fucked so fast since they invaded Iraq, Nate had to allow himself to go there with Brad so he could keep his bearings. Gunny helped with eye rolling and reassurance that Nate wasn't crazy when orders made no sense, but Gunny Wynn didn't get it in his soul the way Brad seemed to. Nate considered, but constantly rejected, the added logic that Gunny wasn't much to look at, or more true to the point, wasn't looking to be looked at. By contrast, Nate was compelled to look at Brad as much as he looked to him for sanity.
Nate handled this ambiguity via the combat jacks that he could wedge in, compartmentalizing it all squarely into fantasyland. Theoretically. But Brad was such a golden badass Marine, effective and patient leader, classically sculpted, gleefully tech savvy, educated, unpredictably eccentric…he kept revealing himself to be so god damned perfect that it kept upping the challenge to Nate. And that challenge itself was such a fucking turn on....
As this confederation of concepts held together as “Brad” flashed through Nate's mind with relief and confusion and deeply tamped down hope and excitement, an additional thought crowded rapidly in, impossible to ignore: Ray Person. Brad had said his name and that made it true that Ray was there, and Ray had spoken and the body type was indeed a match to that of the second, smaller captor.
Nate liked Ray and knew he had some fine skills. He also appreciated the humor Ray brought to his unit. But it was hard for Nate to see him independently of Brad, and Nate wasn't sure how to feel about that. Ray was pretty much always behind or beside Brad, or doing a task for Brad. Which made sense since Ray was Brad’s RTO. Still, Nate was simultaneously jealous and relieved by their closeness. Relieved to have such a tight, effective team in the lead vehicle. Jealous of their enclosed shared space, constant chatter, easy cussing at and caring for one another. If Nate let himself think about it, he might worry there was more. But worrying would be counterproductive to the jack-it-off-and-out-of-mind plan that seemed to work and let him remain combat-effective. So, Nate didn’t worry about Brad and Ray. Instead, he found it was actually a pretty good way to accomplish the jack, thinking about Brad getting from Ray what he might want. Nate, generous leader that he aspired to be, could want Brad to have what Brad wanted. So now this situation threatened all that effort at compartmentalization in fantasyland. Brad and Ray just busted through that line.
Nate tilted his head as forward as he could to direct his first words to them in default authority assertion mode, because whatever else was happening, he was being relieved of control and that was something he came to the world hardwired to need to hang onto. "Just what the hell do you men think you are doing?” Nate regretted the crack in his voice.
Brad shifted and was tugging Nate’s shirts upward, exposing his stomach now. He responded in a quiet, measured voice right into Nate’s skin from where he was nuzzling, “I so fucking desperately hope you don’t fight us on this, sir.”
At the sensations of Brad's smooth nose, rough chin and cheek, and occasional wet flicks from his tongue, Nate’s dick traitorously hardened with embarrassing speed.
Ray chimed in, "Brad really does want this, sir. I mean, yeah, it’s pretty sick. Or maybe I’m just jealous I don’t have his imagination or Donkey Kong balls to pull this off. Oh wow, hey, Brad, I’d say the LT is not gonna fight. Check out that boner!"
"Roger that, Corporal," Brad said, sounding laid back, as if ignoring Nate's squirming. “And don’t worry, sir. This room is secure."
Ray continued, "If you do fight, sir, you’ll just be denying yourself some seriously fucking awesome Bradisfaction, which wouldn’t make any sense, because I mean come on, sir, you've seen Brad, right? And maybe more importantly, you can feel him right now, right?" Ray paused and turned his voice to Brad. "Fuck, Brad, Jesus, so hot.” Then he turned back to Nate. “I mean, sir, Brad is, I just have to say, he is so fucking hot for you, and I'm pretty sure you are ok with that. I've seen you. I guess actually denying yourself this might be exactly the kind of bullshit retardation the leaders of Recon maybe all eventually succumb to, though I'd hate to see even you, sir…”
”Shut up, Ray, or you cannot stay," Brad said, pausing in his licking around Nate's groin, voiced with his usual tired patience for Ray. "And I mean it this time when I say never fucking say, 'Bradisfaction.' I know it's confusing for your devolved mind, but this time, around the LT, I'm in command. Remember that."
"Confusing as fuck," Ray muttered, "But ok."
"I do commend you, Ray," Brad continued between his licks, "for bringing up the notion of succumbing. Sir, Nate, I sincerely hope you will consider it."
Nate was literally and figuratively stuck and not sure if he felt comforted by the usual Brad/Ray banter or if it was all a distraction tactic he would be best advised to ignore. Nate had trouble weighing his thoughts as he was reeling in the shock of this whole thing and now the sensations coming from Brad's tongue that overwhelmingly read in as fuck yes. The purpose of Nate’s wiggling was unclear even to himself, whether in protest or thrill. "Brad..." was all he could think or say, still grasping at an authoritative tone.
“I knew you wouldn’t yell as we secured you,” Brad said, ever calmly, now circling his tongue around the base of Nate’s cock, hands grasping Nate’s hips. Brad's tongue was the sole strong force deftly moving Nate's cock around to get 360 degree access. Nate decided to concentrate on ignoring this because it might feel good and that would make him put his guard down and for lack of any other logic to rely on, it was just a principle to cling to.
Brad continued, “I considered whether I would have to gag you for this operation…realized I didn’t want to have to violate…” and Brad stopped and stood up, “This. Mouth.” Nate felt fingers trace his lips lightly, and he pulled his face to one side in defiance, but Brad’s fingers followed. Brad was still talking. “It certainly looks like it needs violating, but not that way. I wanted to see these beautiful lips while I secured you, and now, hopefully...” Brad trailed off as he apparently leaned in, as his next words came from close to Nate’s face, “It's so nice to have been able to use my training for something actually rewarding here in Iraq.”
Nate could not regain control over his dick. He was still downshifting from worrying he was in a losing battle with men who meant him harm. Adrenaline had flooded his system. His ability to maintain self-control wavered in this physiological circumstance. It was a genius move from Brad to have induced this, given his apparent tactical aims (and credit to Ray, to the extent he was intellectually involved in planning and clearly in execution; what a great team Nate had to be proud of...not that this was important now…). Their taking this control, forcing a kind of test - it was ingratiating, possibly irresistible, although in theory, nothing is irresistible. Nate further appreciated that Brad (and apparently Ray) strategized it would be a worthwhile to take this risk, to lay all their cards on the table.
Nate’s brain was in a loop trying to process all this, but there simply was no decision tree he’d been taught for this situation. Covering for the confused thoughts, Nate smirked slightly and tried to keep edge in his tone. “Employing your training in service of perverted criminal activity? Leading your subordinate to immobilize victims for your sexual conquest? Do you herd goats for him to screw in exchange?"
Person tsk'ed his tongue in protest.
Brad spoke low and remained close to Nate's face. "You're no victim, sir.” Brad connected his lips to Nate’s, kissing, pushing his tongue through to provide one whirl, then one more, then he withdrew. Nate hadn't fought, and was then moving forward without thinking - as far as he could with the binding on his arms. It was a natural chase, as it seemed like just the beginning of a kiss. No one would start such a kiss and then stop quickly. Except the Iceman. Fucking Brad. "See?" Brad said, confirming receipt of the message Nate hadn't meant to send.
Nate was stunned from the shock of suddenly having Brad invade his mouth, so intimate and personal, tasting fresh, moving with precision and force. Nate was also stunned from being tricked like that. But before Nate could protest or try to cover or anything, Brad's hand found Nate's dick, gripped it briefly, and then backed off to a flat-hand rub against his own belly. All protests over the brief kiss evaporated. Brad’s hand on his dick was like getting an itch scratched that he hadn’t been able to reach for weeks, and now there was no end to the amount of rubbing that would satisfy him, it seemed.
Brad spoke low: "Jesus, you really did get hard for me, didn't you, sir? I knew it. Reconn'ed the fuck out of this one. Got your adrenaline going, got you going in a fight, tied you down, tested you...”
Nate had a distant recognition that this was Brad spoon feeding Nate's own words back to him, but he didn't have mental space to consider it fully. Brad's hand felt so good, and then Brad and Ray kept talking.
"What a sweet recon job it's been," Ray added. "Unlike our other bullshit assignments in this invasion, this liberation." Ray’s sarcasm lingered especially long on the last word.
"Liberation," Brad echoed, whole hand pumping Nate’s dick slowly now. "Apt, Corporal."
Oh God Brad’s hand felt so good. Nate bucked helplessly.
Brad stilled his hand and said expectantly, “Ray.”
“On it, Brad,” Ray replied, still near Nate’s feet, sounding chipper like he would when a mission was finally underway. Nate felt Ray’s hands and weight on his hips, pinning him, stopping the bucking.
This allowed Nate’s brain to surface for a moment, and he recovered his resistance and grunted, “I’m no victim, Sgt. Colbert? Jesus Christ. I’m tied up. This is insane. Let me go."
Brad didn’t hesitate to respond, “I know you trust me, sir. Right now, this is my team. My commands will all make sense, in a refreshing change of pace. And don't worry - Ray's on a leash. I would advise you, sir, that it will be in your best interest to keep him here, but if you want him sent away...”
“I want you to untie me," Nate managed, avoiding the question, and pushing past the gasping he wanted to do as Brad kept attending his dick and as Person's warm rough hands conveyed a certain care that was appealing and welcome. "And remove this blindfold. You revealed yourselves to me - no point keeping it on now."
“Nice try, sir,” Brad responded, the sound of a smile finally piercing the Iceman’s monotone.
"Fucking take it off." Nate tried his best growl but failed by some measure of gratitude spilling in.
“Surrender,” Brad commanded softly.
Nate couldn’t know if it was surrender - how foreign. Even with his arms bound and out to his sides, not a speck of light to see through a blindfold, pants down and dick being manipulated by two perceptive Marines with world class skill at working their own equipment…if ever there might be advisable conditions for surrendering control...
Nate let escape a small moan. A poignant, information-loaded moan.
Brad sighed quietly, happily, patiently, receiving the information.
Then Ray dug his fingers into Nate and whined as if under torture, "I think he is surrendering Brad, but oh God, pleeeease, can I? I mean, Jesus, it's right there."
"OK. But just a little," Brad responded generously, slowing the pumping a little.
"You know, this is really working just fine for me," Ray commented, as though offhandedly, casually, leaning his body against Nate and toward Brad on the other side.
Brad replied. "I told you," and he practically stopped working Nate’s cock. There was some sound of shifting, and then the sound of Brad and Ray…yes, kissing over Nate’s body.
Yeah, of course. Of course. Ray invented the unforgettable "Bradisfaction" term from experience. They'd been indicating this relationship status throughout this, uh, encounter. Nate had surmised this status in his combat jack musings. Nate was rarely wrong about much. And here it was. Here it really was.
Nate's jealousy was a beastly and primative thing, a lonely breed of energy-wasting emotion managing to surface. Usually such nonsense is policed effectively. It briefly clashed and lost with the far more intellectually interesting arousal that held firm at the clearly communicated idea of what Brad and Ray were there to do. They were not there to show off their affections for one another. Jealously was not a rational thing for the guy who was the center of attention to feel.
A releasing lip smack sound was followed by Ray saying quietly, "Just don't get too cocky or you'll be sorry later." Ray’s tone was surprisingly daring toward Brad, not his usual kidding bravado.
Nate's ponderings on the curiosities of Brad and Ray were abruptly halted as he needed to divert all resources to processing Ray licking the tip of his dick while Brad’s hand pumped. Brad breathed, "Nice," as he and Ray settled into their jobs.
At those initial hot wet sensations from Ray, Nate took up a serious reconsideration of the involvement of Corporal Person. He'd accepted Ray would be assisting and containing for Brad, providing security and whatever else. He didn't think Ray would be directly bringing the brainmelt, too, until he felt the heat and the tongue motions. They were good. Skilled.
Jealously effectively policed.
“Jesus, fuck!” Nate hissed after a moment, struggling a bit again, habitually remembering his command, calculating the distance from lieutenant to corporal, as opposed to sergeant which was a little closer (and all along Nate had felt close to Brad because they had worked more closely together, had to). Ray was something new and it revived Nate’s protest, logical or not. “I can’t…” And yet, to be touched, to get some friction down there that wasn't self-applied. From Ray. Obnoxious lovable Ray who kept Brad happy. Some wet heat from Ray.
“You can. You should. Just relax and wait for it, sir. Nate." Brad’s lull sounded increasingly like begging. He invoked formal and informal names, chipping away however he could.
Sex with other people had never been a "relax and wait" approach for Nate Fick. Yet, again, ceding control to Brad, the alpha-est male enlisted in the Marine Corps, was probably an acceptable way to do it, something Nate could live with. Nate’s body had already betrayed him via an instant hard on, an automatically reciprocated kiss, and a moan that escaped in pleasure here and there, but still he struggled against the cuffs and the weight the two men were placing on his lower half. It was simply Nate’s nature to constantly test and try to get control.
Then all Nate’s internal turmoil gave way to an annoying business going on at the surface, where Ray and Brad, surprisingly, lost coordination. Ray wanted to suck in more of Nate's cock, and Brad’s upstrokes seemed to be defending territory rather than working with Ray's mouth. Nate wanted the strokes to start being faster or the warmth of Ray's mouth to envelop more, or better yet, for those two factors to work in tandem optimally, not against one another. This was frustrating lack of teamwork from Colbert and Person. Nate was assured that Brad’s hand was stronger than how lightly he was using it, and that Ray's mouth was much much bigger and deeper. This moment that could have felt very fucking good was in need of refinement, intervention, questioning...
“Uh...” Nate began.
But then Brad warned, "Careful Ray. He doesn’t get to come yet. Get up. That's enough."
Nate scoffed. "Yeah, actually..."
Oblivious to Nate's tone, Ray whined, "Brad, I am seriously," and then decisively said, "oh, fuck it.” Nate heard a zip and fabric rustle. Ray was pulling his pants down.
"Not a bad idea, Ray," Brad mused and released Nate. The same sounds of clothing coming off came from Brad’s direction.
Nate missed the stimulation - uncoordinated though it had become - and in doing so appreciated how much he’d given in. But just then, his right index finger finally registered a release tab of one of the cuffs. Of course they were the adjustable kind, ones you didn’t have to snip to get free of. More for cable management than prisoner containment. To mock them a little and distract from his imminent escape, Nate started talking. "Know what a bad idea is, men? It's to leave your commanding officer hang-ing."
Nate forcefully exhaled the final syllable as Brad climbed on top of him, straddling across his hips, and claiming, "It won't happen again, sir." They were skin to skin, erection to erection. Brad exhaled heavily and happily and the tables squeaked in protest as they supported hundreds of pounds of pure lean muscle. Nate considered whether perception was distorted in a blindfold, where the blockade of one sense led to other senses registering their intel as more important and exaggerated. This seemed a reasonable way to explain the overwhelmingness of Brad grinding into him, and scraping teeth along his neck, and leaving no sense of space between them. This was definitively intimate. Nate ached for it more, even as he received it. He ached to embrace and pin and run hands everywhere and lick and just fucking engage.
But he also kept focus on finding the right angle with his finger on that cuff tab.
"Guys," Nate's protest clearly in its death throes, "You could get into serious trouble for this."
There was absolutely no indication that Brad gave a fuck, and Ray spoke from somewhere nearby: "Holy fuck, that is a pretty, pretty pile of Marines. Motherfucking holy fuck, some awesome gaywad shit." It had a chanting, rhythmic quality which Nate presumed was a reflection of rhythms Ray was engaged in with himself.
Brad leaned forward to touch his forehead to Nate's as he spoke: "You tried fighting us off pretty well, sir, when we first pinned you and secured you. But admit it - that got you going, and now, you need this."
“Maybe,” Nate said, genuinely unsure and more overwhelmed by Brad's ambitious sensual assault - a barrage of touching previously fantasized about, a blissful moment of being trapped under Brad’s imposing body mass, cocks rubbing, Brad's tongue exploring...so amazing…except, with Brad now on top, there was pain from the table edge digging into his back. Another really pleasant thing kind of spoiled....
As Brad was grinding and slipping a hand between them to pump their cocks together and making small puffs of pleased noises, he muttered, "We waded through such a shitstorm to deserve this, didn't we sir?"
“We don’t earn anything special for doing our jobs, Brad,” Nate was able to say as he pressed the cuff tab just right and loosened it, releasing one hand. He instantly grabbed Brad's ass and pressed to shift weight, relieving the annoying pain in his back. He involuntarily also emitted a terse grunt at the shockingly arousing sensation of a fistful of pure hard muscle that was Brad's ass. Nate smiled outright in his escape and trophy grab. “But we do earn our asses running with gear on, don’t we?”
"Ray!" Brad called, reacting to the breech.
"Aw, fuck, sir," Ray complained, bothered, interrupted, scrambling to lunge forward.
Nate withdrew his hand from the momentary indulgence of grasping Brad’s magnificent ass, and tried to remove the blindfold. Before he could whip it off, Ray had grabbed the fabric close to the back of Nate's head and held on.
“Brad,” Nate commanded. He gave up actively fighting for blindfold removal with his free hand and started pushing at Brad’s torso, running under his shirt to the measly extent he could reach, desperate for the skills of the blind to reconstruct the image satisfactorily in his mind. Brad’s skin felt warm and hard but Nate needed to see. Now. Enough. “Take off my blindfold and then your shirt, in that specific order."
Brad paused and responded with some mild amusement, “I think we are somewhat past that base, sir.”
“Come on Brad. I need to fucking see the AO. I need to….” Nate had no control over the leaking desperation now that he was so close.
“Run tongue patrols over it?” Ray offered. “Not unless we say you can.”
Nate dismissed Ray’s nonsense. There was a pause and sigh from Brad that felt sympathetic.
"Aw come on, Brad! Shit, homes, you just gonna give in? Already?" Ray was squatting and pulling the blindfold taught, speaking very near Nate's ear. "I can totally keep him locked down here. Hey, maybe I can even just sort of, like, you know, sit on his face or something? I can’t tell if I should be asking you if I can, Brad, or if I should just tell the LT I’m doing it, or tell you both and just…"
“Person,” Nate said in a startling Lieutenant Voice. Nate had turned his head toward Ray despite the force of Ray pulling on the blindfold to keep it on. Nate demonstrably licked the corner of his own mouth. Then he calmly promised, "Let this blindfold go and maybe one day you will have the rendezvous you are looking for with my mouth."
"Sir!" Ray whined, as if offended and thrilled all at the same time.
"Ray," Brad said, intervening possessively by coaxing Nate’s face back to center by placing his enormous hand across Nate's cheek, chin, and mouth, and applying pressure. “Go ahead. Let go."
Nate turned as compelled, but also sucked in two of Brad’s fingers and Brad puffed out an exhale.
"Ok," Ray conceded, "but Jesus Christ, first, just real quick..." and before either superior could react, Ray put his mouth over Nate's, with Brad's fingers still there, not yet letting go of the blindfold.
“That’s weird, Ray,” Brad said, withdrawing his fingers.
Nate ignored Brad, altering plans strategically, readily. He used his free hand to grip Ray by the back of the head to hold him to the kiss. Ray seemed reluctant at first to quicken into a serious tongue duel, but relaxed and indulged, participating, battling a little for control. Nate did not back down, trying to take possession of every instant coffee-flavored corner of Ray’s mouth, even though Ray had the literal high ground and Nate was still half tied up. Nate released Ray’s head, and Ray didn’t try to go anywhere. Somewhere in their lapping, Ray loosened his grip. Nate pulled the blindfold off and, after another beat or two, released from the kiss. They stared at each other a moment, Ray wide-eyed, Nate calm. Nate said, "Ray, as an in-kind gesture for my offer, you could show me sometime just how expansive that mouth of yours really is, to the end.”
“It is a cave of heaven, I hear, sir,” Ray responded, dazed, flopping down to sit cross-legged on the floor. He looked to Brad and said, “You see how the tied-up guy seems to be running the show, here, right?”
Nate raised eyebrows at Ray in amusement, then looked up at Brad to see him in a slight panic, an arrest of action, something…something odd and unfamiliar seemed to have taken possession of him.
“And by the way, ‘weird?’” Ray said, jumping back five seconds to pick up a thread and break the moment Brad seemed stuck in. “You’re saying I’m weird? You try resisting the LT's mouth.” Ray’s kidding edge was not really there. “Jesus, he forced me to kiss him with his dirty looks and that little tongue flash at me. Screw you.”
“You’re forgetting your job here,” Brad said. It was a less decisive declarative from Brad than usual. He had started taking a more questioning stare at Nate, and he slowly bent down to get face to face.
Nate felt like an observed target being honed in on. He wasn’t fully understanding the things Brad and Ray were saying, but he didn’t care. Brad was descending toward him and it was captivating. Nate could see that rare vulnerability in Brad’s face, that desire to receive order. Nate had all kinds of ways he felt he could give Brad what he wanted, if he could just get loose.
He settled for his free hand maneuvering onto Brad’s thigh and skimming up until his thumb found the tendon connecting Brad’s inner thigh to his groin, and then moving inward more to get a little feel of the side of Brad’s theoretical Donkey Kong balls. Brad blinked at Nate’s touch and Nate stared at Brad, hoping this would be the start of Brad seeing it had all gone far enough and that Nate was onboard and should be set free and allowed to return favors. But Brad just sat back up, grabbed Nate’s hand and guided it onto his dick. Sitting up and clearing his throat, he said, “Observe, Ray. Nate doesn't really want to explore. Not in a self-directed way.” Brad started pumping his dick, using Nate’s hand as a sort of sheath under his own.
“I don’t?” Nate said, having caught his breath, genuinely confused, pleased to have grasped Brad’s cock (yesyesyesyes), loving it and wanting the next thing instantly, which was more. More for him. More for all of them. But Brad just kept running this prank and Nate was feeling less and less clear on why.
(click here to continue...)
Author: someonesgrlbomb
Rating: NC-17
Length: Part 1+2+3 ~18,000 words
Warnings: elements of dubcon, rimming
Pairings: Brad/Ray, Brad/Nate, Brad/Nate/Ray
Summary: A threesome-bound fanfic, in three parts.
Release the Dogs Master Post
The Third Thing That Happened
Nate came to, catching up to his body already fighting against something frustratingly overpowering on top of him right where he lay, belly down on his bedroll on the concrete floor. The weight was not yielding as Nate thrust all his force upward. He came to appreciate one reason for this was that his limbs were pinned and a blindfold was being pulled tight.
He calculated the amazingly low odds of enemy infiltration of the encampment in the cigarette factory, with his Recon Marines among them and Navy Seals guarding the roof, for fuck’s sake. Had there been time, his stomach was going to bottom out with dread at the possibility of mass murder, a silent chemical weapon, something horrible having happened to his men and the hundreds of other Marines settled there. He willed that the enemy bought this advantage with a fair number of their own lives. There was no other way to compute it. Only, how had he survived it, or even just slept through it? Since the invasion started, he hadn't been able to sleep through someone folding a map in the next room.
Whatever. Like hell was he going to go down, especially if it was now up to him to avenge even one Marine.
Nate registered that he was in a two-on-one fight. Fine. He tried sweeping his legs out from under the body pinning them but his move was anticipated and blocked. This guy had a large fucking frame and locked down Nate’s legs. Shit.
Nate turned his attentions to future dead man #2 - the blindfolder, sitting on Nate's forcibly outstretched right arm as he cinched up the fabric behind Nate's head. This other one was a smaller man, but capable of controlling Nate’s critically skilled and stronger right arm. Nate tried jabbing his elbow upward, flailing, rolling his shoulder for whiplike leverage, but like the bigger guy, this guy seemed to know Nate’s tricks, too. And…wait, was this second guy snickering as Nate struggled? Probably misinterpreting heavy breathing.
Nate had to admit, now about six seconds into this encounter, that he was outmaneuvered. For the moment. Had they wanted him dead, he’d be dead, so Nate conserved his strength and waited like a coiled snake for these guys to shift positions and create new opportunities for him to strike back. He had no idea what weapons these men had, and hell, he was just a lieutenant. He might not be worth all that much trouble if he started causing more than they wanted. Sure, he was an officer, but the joke would be on them if they hoped he would be of much intelligence value. He was not able to say what the fuck the U.S. strategy could possibly be other than blow shit up (buildings, civilians, whatever) and grab for medals and promotions. Nauseating.
But for the moment, Nate's silence was steadfast and defiant. At least he had that. He had little else worth holding onto in this war, other than the relief of not losing a man in his platoon so far, despite all the nearsightedness and glory mongering and flat stupidity of his commanders. So, at least in this most personal moment of battle Nate had engaged in yet, actual hand to hand combat, he felt he had his dignity and was fully in the fight. His personal honor as a warrior was intact as it was tested.
Two beats into Nate’s relative placidity, which hopefully came across as a menacing “I’m waiting for your next move to make mine, fuckers," there was a pause in the action, and Nate surmised the captors were silently communicating, as if presuming Nate would be able to understand their language. It was almost comical now how the military had not equipped him with adequate communication capacity to work with the people he would be trying to liberate. Nate understood - now - that he had been leading his men on a mission to distract from the main invasion forces, and with that as their true tactical identity, he could see the logic in their sending him a sub-par translator, if the options were indeed that limited. It was just like the Marines to be limited in resources that way. But it was also just like Marines to under-appreciate cultural considerations and squander an opportunity for them both to be a distracting force and to gain ground with the civilian population, both of which would help achieve the presumed overarching objective. Not to mention that if he knew the local language better, he might be better off in these situations, should these infiltrators break their silence and start talking to one another.
Fuck it, though. He would make do.
After the presumed nonverbal conference of the captors, Nate was lifted by his arms and pulled forward swiftly and flipped over. Nate tried flailing through the flip, hoping to surprise them by working with the momentum they generated, but they again fucking anticipated that and halted him. Semi-upright, his upper back hit what seemed like a lightly padded table that had to have been placed only a couple of feet in front of where he’d slept.
It was ominous that they would choose to stay here rather than nab him and scuttle off to safer ground. Nate feared a little more for the fate of his men, wondered about Gunny Wynn, who had been sleeping in the room with him last he knew. He was tempted to call out for Gunny, in case the same thing was happening to him a few feet away, but he didn’t want to give away a single fucking thing. Not yet. And he didn’t hear anything else happening in the room. He didn't think about whether that might be a really bad sign.
Each of his arms remained pulled away from him and held securely by each of his captors (dead men, dead men). He was pushed backward against the table until his back arched, but still on his feet, holding himself awkwardly up, body a crescent shape. The table smelled of old fine dust like all fabric they encountered in Iraq. Nate kept trying to flail his legs, but these men had his arms in wrapping lock grips that held him firmly - more precognitive countermeasures. Fuck, had his training not been as elite as advertised? Or was he truly up against the best?
He might have dislocated his own shoulders if he kept kicking. That might lead to escape, but there were too many unknowns at that moment to determine whether it would do him any good to try to escape from there with two useless arms.
Then the men were securing what felt like zip cuffs around his wrists and linking them to something - his right arm stretched out and on top of the table, wrist just jutting over the edge, cuff linked to some unknown thing. His left arm dangled down toward the floor from his shoulder socket and was secured to something down there, maybe the table leg but it didn’t slide vertically, so it wasn’t clear. Once his arms were secured, he only had about two inches of vertical leverage to lift his head.
The situation was quite a challenge, but Nate was not scared. Training subverted that circuit. Sure, his heart rate was up. Adrenaline kicked in, but that was a good thing, would help him with bursts of strength in this most critical of tests. Nate might have chuckled at himself for labeling it habitually as such, but his focus was sharpened in a way he relished, felt comfortable with, perhaps even felt was why he had enlisted in the first place and was drawn to combat elitism. Just exactly for this moment. And he was cocky enough (brainwashed enough?) to remain certain that he would come up with the right combination of strategy and strength and technique and timing to defeat these enemies.
The larger man had moved on to control Nate’s legs after getting the arm he was in charge of locked down. He seemed to be kneeling and wrapping his arms around Nate’s lower legs, squeezing them together. He was oddly gentle, patiently gaining control without inflicting pain. Most of Nate’s sparring exercises lent themselves to far rougher treatment. It was eerily reassuring Nate was apparently not to be hurt. The man then seemed to demonstrate arrogant patience for Nate testing the cuffs as he jerked every direction he could, and did nothing to stop him. Motherfucker.
Nate surmised the second man was responsible for the sound of metal dragging toward them, and then Nate’s legs were lifted and the table was pushed under them. The table was not quite as tall as the one under his shoulders, and there was about a foot of space where his back was not supported between these two tables. But at least Nate was no longer arching backward and using lots of strength to hold his weight and struggle against his captors with his legs. Yet now he was newly concerned, vulnerably exposed, belly up, arms outstretched, like being crucified lying down. The situation was going from bad to worse. Nate was, he had to admit, sweating a little.
Just as Nate was to begin a new campaign trying to whip his legs away from the larger man’s control, the smaller man came and held down his ankles, and the larger man leaned forward across Nate’s thighs, altogether trapping him. Then, oh shit, was unbuckling Nate’s belt and opening his fly.
This was rapidly becoming as nightmarish as Nate could imagine. It had all happened so fast, so coldly, so clearly designed to get to this point. Nate braced for humiliation tactics or torture. Recalled his million dollar training. Hu-ruh. Prepare. Fuck. Them.
"You might want to stop struggling so much now, sir. It won’t get you anywhere. Ready, Ray?"
“Yeah. You are such a sick fuck, Brad. Go ahead.”
Nate stopped breathing, not believing his ears.
Brad (large man) lifted Nate’s hips up, allowing Ray (smaller man) to grab Nate’s pants and briefs and pull them swiftly down to his ankles, creating a leg entrapment of sorts.
But holy fuck, Nate's brain was NOT concerned with his new level of bondage. Rather, the world narrowed to just the frequencies comprising those voices. Nate submitted them to his memory for analysis and re-analysis. The match was accurate. One was Brad Colbert, Nate’s best team leader. The Iceman. Yes, it had been his large body pressing and holding and binding him and being kinder than an enemy captor should be. Brad. Able to anticipate Nate's moves because they were his moves too. The enlisted Marine Nate held in highest esteem, kept his eye on most for confidence and commiseration, probably to the point of crossing the officer/enlisted man line...but things had become so fucked so fast since they invaded Iraq, Nate had to allow himself to go there with Brad so he could keep his bearings. Gunny helped with eye rolling and reassurance that Nate wasn't crazy when orders made no sense, but Gunny Wynn didn't get it in his soul the way Brad seemed to. Nate considered, but constantly rejected, the added logic that Gunny wasn't much to look at, or more true to the point, wasn't looking to be looked at. By contrast, Nate was compelled to look at Brad as much as he looked to him for sanity.
Nate handled this ambiguity via the combat jacks that he could wedge in, compartmentalizing it all squarely into fantasyland. Theoretically. But Brad was such a golden badass Marine, effective and patient leader, classically sculpted, gleefully tech savvy, educated, unpredictably eccentric…he kept revealing himself to be so god damned perfect that it kept upping the challenge to Nate. And that challenge itself was such a fucking turn on....
As this confederation of concepts held together as “Brad” flashed through Nate's mind with relief and confusion and deeply tamped down hope and excitement, an additional thought crowded rapidly in, impossible to ignore: Ray Person. Brad had said his name and that made it true that Ray was there, and Ray had spoken and the body type was indeed a match to that of the second, smaller captor.
Nate liked Ray and knew he had some fine skills. He also appreciated the humor Ray brought to his unit. But it was hard for Nate to see him independently of Brad, and Nate wasn't sure how to feel about that. Ray was pretty much always behind or beside Brad, or doing a task for Brad. Which made sense since Ray was Brad’s RTO. Still, Nate was simultaneously jealous and relieved by their closeness. Relieved to have such a tight, effective team in the lead vehicle. Jealous of their enclosed shared space, constant chatter, easy cussing at and caring for one another. If Nate let himself think about it, he might worry there was more. But worrying would be counterproductive to the jack-it-off-and-out-of-mind plan that seemed to work and let him remain combat-effective. So, Nate didn’t worry about Brad and Ray. Instead, he found it was actually a pretty good way to accomplish the jack, thinking about Brad getting from Ray what he might want. Nate, generous leader that he aspired to be, could want Brad to have what Brad wanted. So now this situation threatened all that effort at compartmentalization in fantasyland. Brad and Ray just busted through that line.
Nate tilted his head as forward as he could to direct his first words to them in default authority assertion mode, because whatever else was happening, he was being relieved of control and that was something he came to the world hardwired to need to hang onto. "Just what the hell do you men think you are doing?” Nate regretted the crack in his voice.
Brad shifted and was tugging Nate’s shirts upward, exposing his stomach now. He responded in a quiet, measured voice right into Nate’s skin from where he was nuzzling, “I so fucking desperately hope you don’t fight us on this, sir.”
At the sensations of Brad's smooth nose, rough chin and cheek, and occasional wet flicks from his tongue, Nate’s dick traitorously hardened with embarrassing speed.
Ray chimed in, "Brad really does want this, sir. I mean, yeah, it’s pretty sick. Or maybe I’m just jealous I don’t have his imagination or Donkey Kong balls to pull this off. Oh wow, hey, Brad, I’d say the LT is not gonna fight. Check out that boner!"
"Roger that, Corporal," Brad said, sounding laid back, as if ignoring Nate's squirming. “And don’t worry, sir. This room is secure."
Ray continued, "If you do fight, sir, you’ll just be denying yourself some seriously fucking awesome Bradisfaction, which wouldn’t make any sense, because I mean come on, sir, you've seen Brad, right? And maybe more importantly, you can feel him right now, right?" Ray paused and turned his voice to Brad. "Fuck, Brad, Jesus, so hot.” Then he turned back to Nate. “I mean, sir, Brad is, I just have to say, he is so fucking hot for you, and I'm pretty sure you are ok with that. I've seen you. I guess actually denying yourself this might be exactly the kind of bullshit retardation the leaders of Recon maybe all eventually succumb to, though I'd hate to see even you, sir…”
”Shut up, Ray, or you cannot stay," Brad said, pausing in his licking around Nate's groin, voiced with his usual tired patience for Ray. "And I mean it this time when I say never fucking say, 'Bradisfaction.' I know it's confusing for your devolved mind, but this time, around the LT, I'm in command. Remember that."
"Confusing as fuck," Ray muttered, "But ok."
"I do commend you, Ray," Brad continued between his licks, "for bringing up the notion of succumbing. Sir, Nate, I sincerely hope you will consider it."
Nate was literally and figuratively stuck and not sure if he felt comforted by the usual Brad/Ray banter or if it was all a distraction tactic he would be best advised to ignore. Nate had trouble weighing his thoughts as he was reeling in the shock of this whole thing and now the sensations coming from Brad's tongue that overwhelmingly read in as fuck yes. The purpose of Nate’s wiggling was unclear even to himself, whether in protest or thrill. "Brad..." was all he could think or say, still grasping at an authoritative tone.
“I knew you wouldn’t yell as we secured you,” Brad said, ever calmly, now circling his tongue around the base of Nate’s cock, hands grasping Nate’s hips. Brad's tongue was the sole strong force deftly moving Nate's cock around to get 360 degree access. Nate decided to concentrate on ignoring this because it might feel good and that would make him put his guard down and for lack of any other logic to rely on, it was just a principle to cling to.
Brad continued, “I considered whether I would have to gag you for this operation…realized I didn’t want to have to violate…” and Brad stopped and stood up, “This. Mouth.” Nate felt fingers trace his lips lightly, and he pulled his face to one side in defiance, but Brad’s fingers followed. Brad was still talking. “It certainly looks like it needs violating, but not that way. I wanted to see these beautiful lips while I secured you, and now, hopefully...” Brad trailed off as he apparently leaned in, as his next words came from close to Nate’s face, “It's so nice to have been able to use my training for something actually rewarding here in Iraq.”
Nate could not regain control over his dick. He was still downshifting from worrying he was in a losing battle with men who meant him harm. Adrenaline had flooded his system. His ability to maintain self-control wavered in this physiological circumstance. It was a genius move from Brad to have induced this, given his apparent tactical aims (and credit to Ray, to the extent he was intellectually involved in planning and clearly in execution; what a great team Nate had to be proud of...not that this was important now…). Their taking this control, forcing a kind of test - it was ingratiating, possibly irresistible, although in theory, nothing is irresistible. Nate further appreciated that Brad (and apparently Ray) strategized it would be a worthwhile to take this risk, to lay all their cards on the table.
Nate’s brain was in a loop trying to process all this, but there simply was no decision tree he’d been taught for this situation. Covering for the confused thoughts, Nate smirked slightly and tried to keep edge in his tone. “Employing your training in service of perverted criminal activity? Leading your subordinate to immobilize victims for your sexual conquest? Do you herd goats for him to screw in exchange?"
Person tsk'ed his tongue in protest.
Brad spoke low and remained close to Nate's face. "You're no victim, sir.” Brad connected his lips to Nate’s, kissing, pushing his tongue through to provide one whirl, then one more, then he withdrew. Nate hadn't fought, and was then moving forward without thinking - as far as he could with the binding on his arms. It was a natural chase, as it seemed like just the beginning of a kiss. No one would start such a kiss and then stop quickly. Except the Iceman. Fucking Brad. "See?" Brad said, confirming receipt of the message Nate hadn't meant to send.
Nate was stunned from the shock of suddenly having Brad invade his mouth, so intimate and personal, tasting fresh, moving with precision and force. Nate was also stunned from being tricked like that. But before Nate could protest or try to cover or anything, Brad's hand found Nate's dick, gripped it briefly, and then backed off to a flat-hand rub against his own belly. All protests over the brief kiss evaporated. Brad’s hand on his dick was like getting an itch scratched that he hadn’t been able to reach for weeks, and now there was no end to the amount of rubbing that would satisfy him, it seemed.
Brad spoke low: "Jesus, you really did get hard for me, didn't you, sir? I knew it. Reconn'ed the fuck out of this one. Got your adrenaline going, got you going in a fight, tied you down, tested you...”
Nate had a distant recognition that this was Brad spoon feeding Nate's own words back to him, but he didn't have mental space to consider it fully. Brad's hand felt so good, and then Brad and Ray kept talking.
"What a sweet recon job it's been," Ray added. "Unlike our other bullshit assignments in this invasion, this liberation." Ray’s sarcasm lingered especially long on the last word.
"Liberation," Brad echoed, whole hand pumping Nate’s dick slowly now. "Apt, Corporal."
Oh God Brad’s hand felt so good. Nate bucked helplessly.
Brad stilled his hand and said expectantly, “Ray.”
“On it, Brad,” Ray replied, still near Nate’s feet, sounding chipper like he would when a mission was finally underway. Nate felt Ray’s hands and weight on his hips, pinning him, stopping the bucking.
This allowed Nate’s brain to surface for a moment, and he recovered his resistance and grunted, “I’m no victim, Sgt. Colbert? Jesus Christ. I’m tied up. This is insane. Let me go."
Brad didn’t hesitate to respond, “I know you trust me, sir. Right now, this is my team. My commands will all make sense, in a refreshing change of pace. And don't worry - Ray's on a leash. I would advise you, sir, that it will be in your best interest to keep him here, but if you want him sent away...”
“I want you to untie me," Nate managed, avoiding the question, and pushing past the gasping he wanted to do as Brad kept attending his dick and as Person's warm rough hands conveyed a certain care that was appealing and welcome. "And remove this blindfold. You revealed yourselves to me - no point keeping it on now."
“Nice try, sir,” Brad responded, the sound of a smile finally piercing the Iceman’s monotone.
"Fucking take it off." Nate tried his best growl but failed by some measure of gratitude spilling in.
“Surrender,” Brad commanded softly.
Nate couldn’t know if it was surrender - how foreign. Even with his arms bound and out to his sides, not a speck of light to see through a blindfold, pants down and dick being manipulated by two perceptive Marines with world class skill at working their own equipment…if ever there might be advisable conditions for surrendering control...
Nate let escape a small moan. A poignant, information-loaded moan.
Brad sighed quietly, happily, patiently, receiving the information.
Then Ray dug his fingers into Nate and whined as if under torture, "I think he is surrendering Brad, but oh God, pleeeease, can I? I mean, Jesus, it's right there."
"OK. But just a little," Brad responded generously, slowing the pumping a little.
"You know, this is really working just fine for me," Ray commented, as though offhandedly, casually, leaning his body against Nate and toward Brad on the other side.
Brad replied. "I told you," and he practically stopped working Nate’s cock. There was some sound of shifting, and then the sound of Brad and Ray…yes, kissing over Nate’s body.
Yeah, of course. Of course. Ray invented the unforgettable "Bradisfaction" term from experience. They'd been indicating this relationship status throughout this, uh, encounter. Nate had surmised this status in his combat jack musings. Nate was rarely wrong about much. And here it was. Here it really was.
Nate's jealousy was a beastly and primative thing, a lonely breed of energy-wasting emotion managing to surface. Usually such nonsense is policed effectively. It briefly clashed and lost with the far more intellectually interesting arousal that held firm at the clearly communicated idea of what Brad and Ray were there to do. They were not there to show off their affections for one another. Jealously was not a rational thing for the guy who was the center of attention to feel.
A releasing lip smack sound was followed by Ray saying quietly, "Just don't get too cocky or you'll be sorry later." Ray’s tone was surprisingly daring toward Brad, not his usual kidding bravado.
Nate's ponderings on the curiosities of Brad and Ray were abruptly halted as he needed to divert all resources to processing Ray licking the tip of his dick while Brad’s hand pumped. Brad breathed, "Nice," as he and Ray settled into their jobs.
At those initial hot wet sensations from Ray, Nate took up a serious reconsideration of the involvement of Corporal Person. He'd accepted Ray would be assisting and containing for Brad, providing security and whatever else. He didn't think Ray would be directly bringing the brainmelt, too, until he felt the heat and the tongue motions. They were good. Skilled.
Jealously effectively policed.
“Jesus, fuck!” Nate hissed after a moment, struggling a bit again, habitually remembering his command, calculating the distance from lieutenant to corporal, as opposed to sergeant which was a little closer (and all along Nate had felt close to Brad because they had worked more closely together, had to). Ray was something new and it revived Nate’s protest, logical or not. “I can’t…” And yet, to be touched, to get some friction down there that wasn't self-applied. From Ray. Obnoxious lovable Ray who kept Brad happy. Some wet heat from Ray.
“You can. You should. Just relax and wait for it, sir. Nate." Brad’s lull sounded increasingly like begging. He invoked formal and informal names, chipping away however he could.
Sex with other people had never been a "relax and wait" approach for Nate Fick. Yet, again, ceding control to Brad, the alpha-est male enlisted in the Marine Corps, was probably an acceptable way to do it, something Nate could live with. Nate’s body had already betrayed him via an instant hard on, an automatically reciprocated kiss, and a moan that escaped in pleasure here and there, but still he struggled against the cuffs and the weight the two men were placing on his lower half. It was simply Nate’s nature to constantly test and try to get control.
Then all Nate’s internal turmoil gave way to an annoying business going on at the surface, where Ray and Brad, surprisingly, lost coordination. Ray wanted to suck in more of Nate's cock, and Brad’s upstrokes seemed to be defending territory rather than working with Ray's mouth. Nate wanted the strokes to start being faster or the warmth of Ray's mouth to envelop more, or better yet, for those two factors to work in tandem optimally, not against one another. This was frustrating lack of teamwork from Colbert and Person. Nate was assured that Brad’s hand was stronger than how lightly he was using it, and that Ray's mouth was much much bigger and deeper. This moment that could have felt very fucking good was in need of refinement, intervention, questioning...
“Uh...” Nate began.
But then Brad warned, "Careful Ray. He doesn’t get to come yet. Get up. That's enough."
Nate scoffed. "Yeah, actually..."
Oblivious to Nate's tone, Ray whined, "Brad, I am seriously," and then decisively said, "oh, fuck it.” Nate heard a zip and fabric rustle. Ray was pulling his pants down.
"Not a bad idea, Ray," Brad mused and released Nate. The same sounds of clothing coming off came from Brad’s direction.
Nate missed the stimulation - uncoordinated though it had become - and in doing so appreciated how much he’d given in. But just then, his right index finger finally registered a release tab of one of the cuffs. Of course they were the adjustable kind, ones you didn’t have to snip to get free of. More for cable management than prisoner containment. To mock them a little and distract from his imminent escape, Nate started talking. "Know what a bad idea is, men? It's to leave your commanding officer hang-ing."
Nate forcefully exhaled the final syllable as Brad climbed on top of him, straddling across his hips, and claiming, "It won't happen again, sir." They were skin to skin, erection to erection. Brad exhaled heavily and happily and the tables squeaked in protest as they supported hundreds of pounds of pure lean muscle. Nate considered whether perception was distorted in a blindfold, where the blockade of one sense led to other senses registering their intel as more important and exaggerated. This seemed a reasonable way to explain the overwhelmingness of Brad grinding into him, and scraping teeth along his neck, and leaving no sense of space between them. This was definitively intimate. Nate ached for it more, even as he received it. He ached to embrace and pin and run hands everywhere and lick and just fucking engage.
But he also kept focus on finding the right angle with his finger on that cuff tab.
"Guys," Nate's protest clearly in its death throes, "You could get into serious trouble for this."
There was absolutely no indication that Brad gave a fuck, and Ray spoke from somewhere nearby: "Holy fuck, that is a pretty, pretty pile of Marines. Motherfucking holy fuck, some awesome gaywad shit." It had a chanting, rhythmic quality which Nate presumed was a reflection of rhythms Ray was engaged in with himself.
Brad leaned forward to touch his forehead to Nate's as he spoke: "You tried fighting us off pretty well, sir, when we first pinned you and secured you. But admit it - that got you going, and now, you need this."
“Maybe,” Nate said, genuinely unsure and more overwhelmed by Brad's ambitious sensual assault - a barrage of touching previously fantasized about, a blissful moment of being trapped under Brad’s imposing body mass, cocks rubbing, Brad's tongue exploring...so amazing…except, with Brad now on top, there was pain from the table edge digging into his back. Another really pleasant thing kind of spoiled....
As Brad was grinding and slipping a hand between them to pump their cocks together and making small puffs of pleased noises, he muttered, "We waded through such a shitstorm to deserve this, didn't we sir?"
“We don’t earn anything special for doing our jobs, Brad,” Nate was able to say as he pressed the cuff tab just right and loosened it, releasing one hand. He instantly grabbed Brad's ass and pressed to shift weight, relieving the annoying pain in his back. He involuntarily also emitted a terse grunt at the shockingly arousing sensation of a fistful of pure hard muscle that was Brad's ass. Nate smiled outright in his escape and trophy grab. “But we do earn our asses running with gear on, don’t we?”
"Ray!" Brad called, reacting to the breech.
"Aw, fuck, sir," Ray complained, bothered, interrupted, scrambling to lunge forward.
Nate withdrew his hand from the momentary indulgence of grasping Brad’s magnificent ass, and tried to remove the blindfold. Before he could whip it off, Ray had grabbed the fabric close to the back of Nate's head and held on.
“Brad,” Nate commanded. He gave up actively fighting for blindfold removal with his free hand and started pushing at Brad’s torso, running under his shirt to the measly extent he could reach, desperate for the skills of the blind to reconstruct the image satisfactorily in his mind. Brad’s skin felt warm and hard but Nate needed to see. Now. Enough. “Take off my blindfold and then your shirt, in that specific order."
Brad paused and responded with some mild amusement, “I think we are somewhat past that base, sir.”
“Come on Brad. I need to fucking see the AO. I need to….” Nate had no control over the leaking desperation now that he was so close.
“Run tongue patrols over it?” Ray offered. “Not unless we say you can.”
Nate dismissed Ray’s nonsense. There was a pause and sigh from Brad that felt sympathetic.
"Aw come on, Brad! Shit, homes, you just gonna give in? Already?" Ray was squatting and pulling the blindfold taught, speaking very near Nate's ear. "I can totally keep him locked down here. Hey, maybe I can even just sort of, like, you know, sit on his face or something? I can’t tell if I should be asking you if I can, Brad, or if I should just tell the LT I’m doing it, or tell you both and just…"
“Person,” Nate said in a startling Lieutenant Voice. Nate had turned his head toward Ray despite the force of Ray pulling on the blindfold to keep it on. Nate demonstrably licked the corner of his own mouth. Then he calmly promised, "Let this blindfold go and maybe one day you will have the rendezvous you are looking for with my mouth."
"Sir!" Ray whined, as if offended and thrilled all at the same time.
"Ray," Brad said, intervening possessively by coaxing Nate’s face back to center by placing his enormous hand across Nate's cheek, chin, and mouth, and applying pressure. “Go ahead. Let go."
Nate turned as compelled, but also sucked in two of Brad’s fingers and Brad puffed out an exhale.
"Ok," Ray conceded, "but Jesus Christ, first, just real quick..." and before either superior could react, Ray put his mouth over Nate's, with Brad's fingers still there, not yet letting go of the blindfold.
“That’s weird, Ray,” Brad said, withdrawing his fingers.
Nate ignored Brad, altering plans strategically, readily. He used his free hand to grip Ray by the back of the head to hold him to the kiss. Ray seemed reluctant at first to quicken into a serious tongue duel, but relaxed and indulged, participating, battling a little for control. Nate did not back down, trying to take possession of every instant coffee-flavored corner of Ray’s mouth, even though Ray had the literal high ground and Nate was still half tied up. Nate released Ray’s head, and Ray didn’t try to go anywhere. Somewhere in their lapping, Ray loosened his grip. Nate pulled the blindfold off and, after another beat or two, released from the kiss. They stared at each other a moment, Ray wide-eyed, Nate calm. Nate said, "Ray, as an in-kind gesture for my offer, you could show me sometime just how expansive that mouth of yours really is, to the end.”
“It is a cave of heaven, I hear, sir,” Ray responded, dazed, flopping down to sit cross-legged on the floor. He looked to Brad and said, “You see how the tied-up guy seems to be running the show, here, right?”
Nate raised eyebrows at Ray in amusement, then looked up at Brad to see him in a slight panic, an arrest of action, something…something odd and unfamiliar seemed to have taken possession of him.
“And by the way, ‘weird?’” Ray said, jumping back five seconds to pick up a thread and break the moment Brad seemed stuck in. “You’re saying I’m weird? You try resisting the LT's mouth.” Ray’s kidding edge was not really there. “Jesus, he forced me to kiss him with his dirty looks and that little tongue flash at me. Screw you.”
“You’re forgetting your job here,” Brad said. It was a less decisive declarative from Brad than usual. He had started taking a more questioning stare at Nate, and he slowly bent down to get face to face.
Nate felt like an observed target being honed in on. He wasn’t fully understanding the things Brad and Ray were saying, but he didn’t care. Brad was descending toward him and it was captivating. Nate could see that rare vulnerability in Brad’s face, that desire to receive order. Nate had all kinds of ways he felt he could give Brad what he wanted, if he could just get loose.
He settled for his free hand maneuvering onto Brad’s thigh and skimming up until his thumb found the tendon connecting Brad’s inner thigh to his groin, and then moving inward more to get a little feel of the side of Brad’s theoretical Donkey Kong balls. Brad blinked at Nate’s touch and Nate stared at Brad, hoping this would be the start of Brad seeing it had all gone far enough and that Nate was onboard and should be set free and allowed to return favors. But Brad just sat back up, grabbed Nate’s hand and guided it onto his dick. Sitting up and clearing his throat, he said, “Observe, Ray. Nate doesn't really want to explore. Not in a self-directed way.” Brad started pumping his dick, using Nate’s hand as a sort of sheath under his own.
“I don’t?” Nate said, having caught his breath, genuinely confused, pleased to have grasped Brad’s cock (yesyesyesyes), loving it and wanting the next thing instantly, which was more. More for him. More for all of them. But Brad just kept running this prank and Nate was feeling less and less clear on why.
(click here to continue...)