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The pounding on the door comes exactly three seconds after your first finger slides home, and you know - without pulling out, without checking your phone, without even breathing - that it's Simon, that smug bastard. You freeze, knuckles deep in slick heat, heartbeat hammering against your clit, and the orgasm that was clawing its way up your spine sighs out like smoke under a closed door. Again.
"Sergeant, need ya fer some paperwork. Somethin' about last op." He calls, his voice rough as always even when muffled through the door.
You don't answer. You just glare at the ceiling, your hips still rolled forward, pussy clenching around your own fingers like it thinks you're joking. You're not. For twenty-two days you've been this close, teetering on a cliff of want while every man in this building lines up to tug you back by the ankle. Johnny wants to run drills. Kyle wants 'another spar,' Price wants miracles in the form of mission reports.
You withdraw slowly, wet streaking down your wrist, and hiss through your teeth as the loss burns cold. You pull your pants back up, wipe your hand on your thigh and yank open the door before Simon can knock again. He blinks at the flush riding high in your cheeks and narrows his eyes.
You don't give him time to speak before you shove past his shoulder so hard he actually stumbles. The hallway air tastes like defeat and cheap detergent; you suck it in through your teeth because fury is oxygen right now.
"Sergeant-"
"Save it."
He follows anyway - of course he does - while you stomp towards Price's office right at the end. You kick it open without knocking. John looks up mid-stir of instant coffee, eyebrows cocked exactly once before you wheel around, jab a finger at Simon behind you, then stab it toward John.
"I've about had it." You huffed.
The two of them trade glances - slow, lazy and amused. You feel that amusement crawl under your skin the way your own fingers had been crawling inside your cunt two minutes ago. John sets his mug down, folding his arms in the careful motion of a man humoring an unexploded grenade.
"Something on your mind, y/n?" he drawls.
You slam the door shut with a heel. "Twenty-two days. Twenty-two fuckin' separate, deliberate interruptions. Every single time I'm one fucking stroke away and one of you shows up with drills, reports, sparring sessions, imaginary paperwork-"
Simon lifts both hands, palms out. "We didn' know it was-"
"Didn't know?" You let out a bark of a laugh. "Last week you broke into my room because I 'wasn't answering comms.' I was in the shower with a fuckin' hand-held nozzle between my legs, you absolute cockroach."
John tries a sheepish grin. It just makes you hotter. "Look, luv, we're sorry-"
"Sorry?" You spin the word like chambering a round. "That what you're calling it? 'Cause every sorry face I've seen lately looks an awful lot like a smirk hiding behind your teeth."
Simon leans off the doorframe, his thumbs hooked in his belt. "We can fix it."
John clears his throat and gives a nod. "Make it right." Their voices overlap, casual and condescending. Like you're a kid who dropped an ice-cream cone. Like you haven't bled across three continents with them.
"How?" you snarl, "Are you planning to wire my clit back into a functioning nerve bundle, huh? Houdini the orgasm you just magicked away?"
John sets the mug down entirely now, and his gaze drags from your boots to your hips, slow enough to uncurl the anger inside you into something wetter, louder. Desperate. Behind you, Simon's chest suddenly grazes your shoulder until all four walls are suddenly made of the two men - warm, breathing.
Simon's laugh hums low against your ear. "We're on the clock, Sergeant. Twenty-two owed, one payable now, if yer wantin'."
You start to tell him to shove it; instead you inhale and their scent crawls straight through your blood, blunt and nostalgic and cocky. Price stands and approaches, then traces a knuckle along your jaw - an order dressed as permission - and your spine answers before you do, curving like a pulled bow.
Simon's hand settles low on your back, thumb sliding beneath waistband to rest against sweat-damp skin. John crowds the front, pressing a palm to your sternum until you feel the thrumming of his pulse echoing yours. They move together, choreographed by years of breaching doors under fire; now they breach you, slow and certain and filthy.
"Twenty-two," Price murmurs, his lips ghosting your temple. "We'll tally each on the flat of your tongue."
"Or on 'er arse." Simon chuckled, his fingers digging into the meat of your hip.
Your breath hitches as John's mouth finds the pulse at your neck - hot, open, teeth scraping just hard enough to brand. Simon's hand slides even lower, past the waistband, fingers skimming the cleft of your ass with deliberate slowness until you grind back against him without thinking.
"Fuuck, look at you," Simon growls, his free hand yanking your shirt up and over your head in one rough motion, fabric catching on your ears before it hits the floor. The cool office air kisses your skin like a slap, and then John's palms are on your tits, pinching your nipples until they ache in the best way. "Already soaked fer us, aren't you? Twenty-two days of thinkin' abou' this, yeah? Thinkin' about being our little fucktoy."
You try to snarl something back but it dissolves into a whine when Simon's fingers finally press between your legs from behind, tracing the seam of your pants. Your hips jerk forward into John and he chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating against your collarbone where he's mouthing bruises.
"Such a desperate slut," John murmurs, his words curling heat low in your belly. "Can't even wait to get somewhere private, hm? Gonna let us take you right here on my desk like the cock-hungry girl you are?"
Your hands scramble, finding John's belt and yanking it open with practiced desperation. His cock springs free, hot and heavy against your palm, and you stroke him roughly just to hear the way his breath stutters. Behind you, Simon finally shoves your pants to mid-thigh; the denim traps your legs together, turning you into a toy they can rock between them.
"Jesus Christ," Simon hisses, his fingers finally pushing inside you from behind, curling just right as John's thumb finds your clit and rubs mercilessly. "She's fuckin' drippin'. Been saving all this for us, sweetheart? All this pretty wet cunt just beggin' to be used?"
Your knees buckle, but they hold you up - Simon pressed against your back, John against your front, their hands everywhere. Pinching, grabbing, claiming. You're nothing but sensation now, raw and electric, your mind glazing over with pure, animal need.
"Answer him," John commands, giving your nipple another sharp twist that has you seeing stars. "Tell us what you've been thinking about while you touched yourself all those nights."
"I- fuck- I thought about you both," you gasp, the words tumbling out shamelessly as Simon adds another finger, stretching you open. "About you holding me down while he - while you-"
"While I wot?" Simon's voice is pure filth in your ear, his still-clothed cock pressing against your tailbone. "While I fucked that tight little arse? While we took turns ruinin' ya?"
A broken sound tears out of you - pitched high, needy, half-sob, half-moan - and Simon eats it like a praise, dragging your hips back until your trapped knees knock his thighs. You arch helplessly, canting your ass higher, the denim pinning your thighs making every small shift an obscene grind. John wraps a fist in your hair, bending and pulling you forward til your mouth is level with his swollen head, saliva pooling, but he keeps you hovering an inch away, teasing your lips with the slick slit until you whimper again.
"Good girl," he says, low and approving, like the sound is exactly what he wanted to wring from you. Then, louder: "Simon, put 'er on the desk. Now."
Simon nods and his hands scoop under your knees; John guides your shoulders. They lift you between them, movement easy, practiced like a well-oiled machine. Your bare back meets cool wood, stacks of folders skittering to the floor with a clap, John's forgotten coffee bleeding across the report you spent three hours on. You don't care. The moment your spine hits the wood, John's hands brace beside your ears, caging you, while Simon drags your pants the rest of the way off. They leave your boots on; the leather heels bite the desk edge as they push your knees up to your chest, folding you open like a switchblade.
Both men pause - one heartbeat, two - just drinking you in. You feel the stare like fingers: the flushed, swollen mess of you, glistening under cheap fluorescents, your shirt tangled around one wrist like a forgotten restraint. Heat floods your face, your chest, your cunt; you squirm and try to speak but only a cracked, hungry keen spills out, begging without words.
Simon answers first. He lines up with you, thick cock hot against your entrance, but he doesn't push in. Instead he drags the blunt head through your folds, painting himself in your slick, hitting your clit on every upward pass until your hips chase him with desperate little jerks. "Colour?" he asks - because they're soldiers first, after all.
"Green," you gasp. "Green, green- fuck- please-"
He slides home in one cruel, perfect thrust. You see stars, inner walls fluttering around the sudden stretch, and your back bows off the desk hard enough John has to pin you with a forearm across collarbones. Simon's growl rumbles straight up your spine, hips already rolling, setting a brutal rhythm that rattles the whole desk. Every drag of him across that spot inside you draws sharp, broken moans you don't even recognize as yours.
And John doesn't let you drown alone, no. While Simon fucks you open, John palms your breasts again, twisting, plucking, then slides higher, guiding your mouth to his waiting cock. The taste of him - sweat, and a faint bite of cheap soap - spills across your tongue as you hollow your cheeks, eager, sloppy. Saliva coats your chin as you take John deeper, tears streaming when he hits your throat - no grace, just greed.
Simon's hips snap faster, each thrust forcing the air from your lungs in punched-out grunts that vibrate around John's cock. You're a mess, a live wire short-circuiting between them, your body nothing but a sheath for their hunger.
"Look at 'er," John rasps, guiding your head, watching you choke and swallow. "Fuckin' starvin' for it."
Simon answers with a growl. "Proper fuckin' slag." His fingers bruising your thighs as he spreads you wider, slamming so hard the desk skids an inch across the cheap carpet. The friction burns sweet, your clit throbbing with every slap of his skin. You try to moan, but John fills your mouth too full - so you whimper around him instead, the sound thin and desperate, sparking something feral in both men.
John's hand fists tighter in your hair, tilting your face so your teary eyes meet his. "Tha's it luv, cry for us. Show us how much you needed this."
Simon's thumb swipes over your clit and you buck, your vision blurring. He laughs. "Still tryin' to come? After all those nights we left ya hangin'?" He pinches the swollen nub, cruel, and your spine arcs. "You come when we say."
Your cunt clenches, begging for release, but you nod as best you can with John's cock stretching your lips. The gesture tears a satisfied sound from Simon and he angles higher, dragging the head of his cock across that spot until your thighs shake uncontrollably. You feel yourself dripping down the crack of your ass, pooling on Price's files, and the debauchery of it only makes you hotter, needier.
John pulls out suddenly - strings of saliva bridging your lips to his cock - and slaps the wet shaft across your cheek. "Tell Simon thank you."
"Th-thank you," you sob, your voice shredded, hips chasing Simon's next thrust.
"Louder."
"Thank you, Simon- fuck- please don’t stop- " All whining and sweet and ruined.
He doesn't. If anything he speeds up, rhythm stuttering when your walls flutter again. You feel him swell, he's close, and you clench hard on purpose, daring him. Simon snarls and moves a hand to your throat. Not to choke, but to possess, as he pounds through the tightening grip.
John palms himself as he watches, then shoves back between your lips just in time to feel your throat contract around the tip when Simon finally loses it - hot, pulsing, grinding you down into the desk as he comes with a grunt that rattles your bones. You taste John's pre-come mixing with your tears and you swallow both, dizzy, still hovering on that razor's edge.
Until finally, "Come." A Command.
And you do. Gods you do. A scream muffled by the weight of John's cock on your tongue is the only warning they have before your hips buck and hands scrabble at the wood of the desk. Cunt clenching around Simon like he was your savior only for Simon to pull out slowly, slick dripping from you onto the floor in obscene strings. He exhales hard. "One down," he whispers.
John eases out of your mouth, thumb wiping the mess from your chin. "Twenty-one to go."
John's smirk splits into a grin as he hauls you upright, knees still jelly and the desk sticky beneath you. "Quick reset, luv," he mutters, hands already spinning you round so your palms slap the edge. Simon's breathing hard, cock half-hard again just from watching his come drip down your thigh. No slow and tender scene - Price hikes your hips higher, one hand pinning your cheek to the slick surface while the other holds his cock and lines up fresh and insistent. One swift thrust and he buries himself, filling the ache Simon left behind.
"A-Ah!~ Fuck, Captain-"
The second orgasm rips free like a live round - all hot, deafening. You swear loudly, filthy and grateful, and Price chuckles into the back of your neck: "Tha's two. You're quick."
Simon's recovered fast. He palms the back of your head, forcing you down onto his waiting dick. You open, mouth wet and sloppy, as Price pounds from behind, both men finding a brutal tandem that turns the office into percussion - flesh slapping metal, your muffled moans, and their swallowed groans. When Simon's hand snakes below to rub firm circles on your clit while John grinds against your g-spot, the third climax detonates even faster. Lights spark white behind your eyes and you whine again; pretty little cunt near gushing.
Without warning, they swap again without ceremony, pushing you flat, legs hooked over John's shoulders while Simon sheaths back inside your cunt, riding the oversensitive ridge with merciless rolls of his hips. He was mean. Laughing between thrusts - they've wrung number four from you, jaw slack, tears streaked, throat raw from moaning their names. You didn't know how much longer you could go without a break.
Lucky for you, they broke first.
Simon pants, sliding out and sagging onto Price's rolling chair, sweat shining down the hollow of his back. John follows, cock twitching uselessly against your thigh as you lie boneless across the scattered debrief folders. All three of you pant like you've sprinted the length of the base, the air thick with sex and sweat.
John finally wheezes a laugh, nudging your bare foot with his hand. "Christ," he says, "we're knackered an' still in debt. Eighteen to go." He wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, eyes glinting. "We're gonna need reinforcements."
Simon raises an eyebrow, catching the implication. "König still on the range?"
John nods, his grin crooked. "Bloke owes me fifty quid an' never turns down a challenge." He palms his phone, thumb hovering over the call button while he levels a lazy stare at you sprawled wet and trembling. "Think you can handle another heavy gunner, luv? Eighteen more owed, after all."
Your pulse spikes again, somewhere between terror and hunger. You croak a laugh that tastes like both come and danger, body thrumming with the promise. "Screw it," you whisper, flicking your tongue over swollen lips. "Call him."