The stiff, ill-fitting fatigue uniforms clung to their powerful frames, stretching taut over muscle and sinew. Terrell, all 6’3” of cocky confidence, felt the rough fabric chafe against his broad shoulders, hugging his bubble butt so tightly he might as well have been naked. Beside him, De’andre, the biggest of the three, with his dark skin and hairy limbs, strained the seams across his chest. Donte, shorter but equally cut, his handsome face set in a defiant smirk, constantly adjusted the too-tight waistband.
Sergeant Miller, a white muscle daddy with a dark mustache and silver hairs dusting his arms, watched them with an intensity that burned. His commands were sharper, his drills harder, his gaze lingering a fraction too long on their sweating bodies. “You three. Move faster! Think you’re too good for this uniform? You’ll earn every stitch, believe me.” He singled them out, and the boys knew it wasn’t just about discipline. It was about their skin, their power, their undeniable presence.
Late at night, Miller would creep towards their barracks. He’d peer through the slats, his breath catching in his throat, as Terrell, De’andre, and Donte moved freely, unburdened by clothes. He saw Terrell’s smooth, glistening body and the dark curls at the start of his ass crack as he stretched, De’andre’s thick Afro pubes framing his heavy, low-hanging balls, and Donte’s black cock sway as he walked. He watched them flex, their muscles rippling under dark skin, their cocks shifting, flipping side to side with every casual movement. His own uniform grew tight as he leaned against the cool wall, one hand dropping to his fly. He would stroke himself, salivating over De’andre’s big cock, the way it flopped when he bent, or Terrell’s uncut length. He’d cum silently, a shudder wracking his body, before wiping himself clean and melting back into the shadows.
Miller had personally selected them, the final three out of twenty, citing their unparalleled physical prowess. But his true motives were far more primal. He’d seen the boys’ bulges, noticed the way their cocks moved, the way their balls hung low. They knew it too, the constant scrutiny, the hungry glares. And because of it, a plan began to form in their minds – a raucous, defiant act that would shatter Miller’s carefully constructed control once they earned their permanent positions.
The first phase began without warning. Late one night, the sounds started. Not the usual snores, but hushed giggles, then moans. Miller, patrolling, stopped dead. Feminine voices, growing louder, more frantic. "Oh fuck! Yes, right there!" a girl shrieked. Then Terrell's deep voice, thick with Ebonics, "You like that, huh? You like this black cock?" A different girl cried out, "Oh God, De'andre, gimme that big dick! It feels so good!" Another, breathless, "Oh, Donte, you pushing it so deep… pink pussy feels better than black girls, don't it baby?" The barracks were alive with the sounds of pleasure – beds creaking, skin slapping, the girls creaming and loaning, their cries of "black cock" echoing. Miller stood frozen, his own erection throbbing, a mixture of rage and desperate envy twisting in his gut. Night after night, the scenario repeated, the explicit sounds penetrating his sleep, his dreams. He became disoriented, day after day, the lack of rest and the torment of their defiant pleasure gnawing at his sanity. He couldn't stop listening, couldn't stop picturing, couldn't stop hating and wanting all at once.
Tonight, it broke the surface. Sergeant Miller sat up in his private quarters, his eyes wide open but seeing something else entirely. A passenger in his own body, he felt a magnetic pull, an inexorable tide dragging him from his bed. He was aware, lucid in the way one is in a dream, his mind screaming a litany of protests that his limbs refused to hear. Go back to bed. What are you doing? Stop. But his body moved with a fluid, somnambulistic grace, shedding his boxers as he stepped out of his room and into the main barracks. Naked.
His mind reeled. Oh no, what the fuck am I doing? He was a ghost gliding through the familiar space, the moonlight turning his pale, muscular form into a marble statue set in motion. His feet made no sound on the cool concrete as he was drawn toward one specific bunk. De’andre’s bunk.
He saw it all with horrifying clarity. The slow, deliberate peeling of the duvet, the reveal of the man beneath. De’andre was sprawled on his back, a sheen of sweat highlighting the deep ebony of his skin. And there, nestled between his powerful thighs, was the object of Miller’s unconscious obsession. The moonlight fell upon him as if a spotlight, a perfect, divine offering. The short, well-kept afro bush, the heavy, slumbering weight of his cock and balls, foreskin relaxed. To Miller’s captive mind, it was the image of a god at rest.
A force that was both him and not him guided his hands. One hand wrapped around the thick, warm shaft while the other cupped the weighty globes beneath. From the edge of the bed, he lowered his head, his internal monologue a silent, frantic scream against the placid, zombie-like expression on his face. Then, he began to worship.
The initial touch was a jolt that pulled De’andre from the shallow depths of sleep. His eyes fluttered open for a split second, the world a blurry tableau of moonlight and shadow. He saw the impossible: Sergeant Miller, his sergeant, kneeling by his bed, mouth closing around him. Shock warred with a rising tide of pure, unadulterated pleasure. The sergeant’s mouth was hot, his technique desperate and reverent. A slow smile spread across De’andre’s face, unseen in the dark. He closed his eyes again, sinking into the fantasy, deciding to let the dream play out.
The sounds began to fill the humid air. Wet, sloppy sucking noises, punctuated by the sergeant’s desperate, loud gags as he took all of De’andre, his body shuddering with the effort. A low, guttural moan rumbled from Miller’s chest, a sound of pure, agonized release.
Across the aisle, on the top bunk, Terrel woke. He heard the rhythmic sounds, the wetness, the moans. A grin touched his lips as he peered over the edge of his bed, ready with a joke. “I thought we said no pussy tonight,” he whispered into the dark.
The grin froze on his face. His eyes adjusted, and the scene below snapped into focus. That wasn't some girl snuck into the barracks. That was Sergeant Miller, naked, on his knees, sucking De’andre off like his life depended on it. Terrel’s mind short-circuited. Horror, confusion, and a sudden, sharp spike of arousal shot through him. He felt his own cock ping to attention, a traitorous response to the shocking tableau. He lifted his sheet, a nervous habit, and saw that his foreskin had already pulled back, the head slick and ready. Damn, he thought, a wave of heat washing over him. U ready to go den.
He moved slowly, carefully, clambering down the metal ladder of the bunk. He didn't realize that in the bed below his, Donte had been awake the entire time, his hand moving in a frantic, silent rhythm under his own sheets, captivated by the raw, forbidden display.
Terrel approached the scene like a man approaching a wild animal. He wanted in. He reached out and tapped the sergeant’s bare shoulder. “Sarge?” he whispered.
No response. The sucking continued, more frantic now. He tapped again, a little harder. Nothing. Frustration flared. He wanted a turn, wanted to be a part of this bizarre, moonlit ritual. He drew back his hand and gave the sergeant’s tight ass a sharp slap.
The sucking stopped. Sergeant Miller slowly turned his head, his face a slack, empty mask. His eyes were open but vacant, looking straight through Terrel. A low grunt escaped his lips, an animalistic sound of annoyance, and then he turned back to De’andre, resuming his worship with renewed vigor.
“What the fuck…” Terrel breathed, stunned into silence.
A voice from the shadows made him jump. “I think the nigga sleepwalking.”
Terrel spun around to see Donte, now sitting on the edge of his bunk, his own magnificent black cock in his hand, thick and fully erect. The secret was out. Donte stood, not bothering to cover himself, and walked closer to get a better look, his fascination overriding any sense of caution.
De’andre, with his eyes squeezed shut, had heard it all. Terrel’s whisper, the slap, Donte’s diagnosis. A thrill, sharp and electric, coursed through him. He was the center of it all, the sleeping god being worshipped while his acolytes gathered. The knowledge only intensified the pleasure, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from crying out.
Donte didn’t try to interrupt again. He walked to the empty bunk closest to the action and sat down, his back against the wall. He began to stroke himself openly, his heavy balls bouncing with each deliberate pull, his toes fidgeting in the dust motes dancing in the moonlight. The room was now charged with a new energy—a shared, voyeuristic intimacy.
There was no plan, no discussion.
With a mischievous grin, Terrel kneeled behind Miller, stroking his shaft while toying with a nipple. His hands danced over the taut, white skin, unleashing a symphony of gasps and moans from the unconscious sergeant. Terrel's fingers then found their way to Miller's plush ass cheeks, jiggling and massaging them with a maddening rhythm.
Miller, still in a trance-like state, bucked and writhed under Terrel's ministrations, his cock stiffening even more. Terrel couldn't resist – he spread the cheeks wide, baring the pink, puckered hole to the moonlight. A soft gasp escaped him at the sight. This was going to be good.
As Terrel drew nearer, his fingers lightly grazed Miller's sweat-dampened skin, tracing the contours of his spine. The sergeant's back arched naturally, like a bitch in heat, with a pronounced dip at the lower lumbar region. Terrel couldn't help but marvel at the explosive white cheeks of Miller's ass, so round and inviting.
Emboldened, Terrel knelt behind the impressive physical stature. The sergeant's bulging biceps, corded with muscle, and the broad expanse of his back seemed to beckon Terrel's curiosity. One hand stroking his own hardening cock while the other jiggled Miller's plump cheek. The flesh yielded to his touch, springing back with a satisfying thud. Terrel massaged the cheeks, smacking them gently, then spreading them wide to expose the pink, pucker-like aperture within.
Gobsmacked by the sight, Terrel called out to his friend Donte, who was pleasuring himself on the adjacent bunk. "Yo, come take a look at this shit, my nigga!" Terrell exclaimed, hardly able to contain his excitement.
Donte's eyes widened as he took in the tableau before him. "Damn, nigga, that shit looks good af. All pink and pretty and shit," he remarked, his own dick twitching in response.
Terrell couldn't resist any longer. Diving face-first, he began to eat Miller's ass like a starving man, his tongue lapping at the stretched skin and probing the hole. Miller morphed into deep, guttural moans, signifying his waking arousal. He was lucid enough to feel, to want. He had a mouthful of black cock, De'andre's, who was fast asleep on the other side of the bed, a willing participant in his own dreams.
Donte stood over them, a voyeur and a conductor, still beating his dick as he watched the scene unfold. “Yhhh, blood, I can tell this sarge liking the way u eating his booty. How it taste like, homie?”
Terrell didn’t answer with words. He let out a series of deep moans and grunts, a primal show of approval, never once moving his lips from Miller’s pink hole. He was lost in it, the taste, the texture, the way Miller’s body responded to his every touch.
The sight was too much for Donte. Curiosity gnawed at him, sharp and insistent. He couldn’t just watch. “Yo, move over, lemme get a turn. U got a nigga curious.”
Terrell didn’t budge, his focus absolute. Donte got on his knees on the bed and tapped Terrell’s shoulder. Nothing. With a bigger shove, he finally dislodged him.
Terrell sat back on his heels, gasping for air, his chin and lips glistening. A dazed, satisfied grin spread across his face. “Yo, that shit taste better than those white girls’ pussy,” he declared, licking a stray spot from the corner of his mouth.
Now it was Donte’s chance. He knelt, positioning himself behind Miller. He spread the man’s cheeks open, stared for a long, appreciative moment, and took a deep breath in. “Damnnnnn,” he hissed. He leaned forward, and with a series of loud, hungry grunts, began to devour Miller’s pink hole, his approach more aggressive, more desperate than Terrell’s had been.
Terrell, now free but still wired, moved to the head of the bed, intending to take over the dick-sucking duties. But he couldn’t find the space. De’andre was dead to the world, his head turned to the side, Miller’s mouth working on him unconsciously. Fuck it, Terrell thought. He wasn’t going to be left out.
He straddled De’andre’s sleeping face, his own weight settling over him. He gently took De’andre’s cock out of Miller’s mouth and, in one smooth motion, put his own in its place. He started to gyrate, his hips rolling into Miller’s face, while his hands found De’andre’s big, black cock, still hard and slick. Shit, Miller’s mouth is the shit, he thought with a private laugh. He looked down at his friend. De’andre still hard, might as well help my nigga out while he waits. He began to stroke his friend off in a brotherly, caring way.
De’andre, lost in the fog of ‘sleep’, didn’t understand the new optics. He just felt something soft and heavy flapping on his chest and a swift breeze on his face with each movement. His nostrils filled with a dark, sensual musk, an intoxicating scent that pulled him toward consciousness. He peeked, his vision blurry. He could see flashes of Terrell’s muscular back, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. As his vision cleared, the full picture snapped into focus: Terrell’s muscular, chocolate, hairy bubble butt swaying tantalizingly above him. With every grind into Miller’s mouth, Terrell’s balls flapped down, grazing his chest before flying back up, wafting that addictive musk right into his face.
De’andre took a deep, shuddering breath in. As Terrell grinded lower, pressing his weight onto his face, De’andre finally plucked up the courage. A long, wet tongue slithered out, slowly, tentatively, making its way up to Terrell’s hole.
The new sensation shocked Terrell. He looked back suddenly, his eyes wide. De’andre just winked and pointed a thumb at Miller. A slow, wicked smile spread across Terrell’s face. He reached over, scooped some spit from Miller’s mouth, and started wanking De’andre’s cock a bit more passionately. “I got you, bro,” he rasped. He then returned to his gyrating, now fully in sync with De’andre’s tongue on his ass and his own cock in Miller’s mouth.
All the while, Donte was still munching on Miller’s asshole, milking the pink hole for everything it was worth. Finally, he pulled back, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to the man’s flesh. He got up and looked down at his dick. It was a long, thick, veiny black COCK, so hard it was pointing straight up at the ceiling, looking right back at him.
“Fellas,” Donte announced, his voice a low growl of intent. “I’m gnna breed the bitch.”
“Do you, my nigga,” Terrell grunted, not missing a beat.
From beneath him, De’andre’s muffled words were barely plausible, but he stuck his thumb up in enthusiastic agreement.
Donte made his move. He guided the glistening head of his dick to the pink, wet hole. He pushed gently, and a slick of spit was pushed back, coating the tip. He pushed a bit further. Miller, with Terrell’s cock down his throat, grunted frantically in the background. More spit began to cover the shaft. “Yo, his shit wet af,” Donte marveled. And then, with a sound like a thick rubber band snapping, he was in.
He was in. Donte gyrated his hips like a dancer, a slow, hypnotic roll that allowed the movement to slowly open Miller’s ass. Miller became entranced, feeling the cock make its way in little by little. His breathing slowed, and his moans became deeper, more guttural.
Terrell whipped his head up to look at Donte, his eyes blazing. “Yo, Donte, I think he liking dat shit. Keep doing that shit, yo! He going crazy on my dick!”
Feeling Miller’s walls finally collapse and accept him, Donte pushed deeper and deeper until he stopped. Balls deep. He moved side to side, as if to make way, his own balls swaying between his legs. Then… pow, pow, pow, pow, pow.
The sound of backshots filled the room, sharp and wet and brutal. He stopped. Miller reacted with a deeeeeep moan that echoed throughout the barrack, a sound of pure, overwhelmed ecstasy. Realizing what he’d just unlocked, Donte continued the onslaught, his face screwed up in a mask of furry and concentration. Pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, pow! Like gunshots in the hot, still night.
Terrell looked on in awe. Even De’andre stopped munching for a second, craning his neck to take in the sight of Donte destroying their sergeant.
The sight broke the spell. It was a catalyst. Terrell and De’andre returned to their tasks with ignited fury. Terrell slammed his hips down harder, forcing his cock deeper down Miller’s throat while grinding relentlessly onto De’andre’s tongue. De’andre met him with equal ferocity, his tongue darting and plunging. The room became a chaotic symphony of grunts, slaps of skin, and choked moans, all underscored by the relentless, percussive rhythm of Donte’s thrusts.
It was a race to the edge, all three of them pushing, taking, and sharing in a frenzy of raw, unrestrained lust.
“OH, FUCK!” Donte roared, his body seizing as he emptied himself deep inside Miller.
“YEAH, NIGGA!” Terrell yelled, his voice triumphant as he exploded in Miller’s mouth, his back arching.
A muffled, ecstatic cry was torn from De’andre’s throat as Terrell’s release and the frantic stroking sent him over the edge, his own release hot against his stomach.
Then, silence. The only sounds were the whirring of the fans and the ragged, desperate sound of four men gasping for breath. Limbs were tangled, bodies slick with a mixture of sweat and fluids. The air, already thick, was now electric, crackling with the raw energy of what had just passed, and pregnant with the unspoken question of what a new day, and a new night, would bring.
