Whiskey’s been home a week, the air between us lighter, trust stitching back together over shared mugs of tea. One night, he leans back, that familiar smirk tugging his lips. “That barracks bunny thing you did,” he says, voice low and teasing, “keeps rattling round my head. Fancy giving it another go when I’m offshore? Proper, mind—rules tight, videoed, tease me with it.” My stomach flips with a thrill—Ryan bare, the rest with condoms, all caught on tape for him. “A big one?” I ask, grinning, and he nods slow. “Aye, love. Ryan bare, mates wrapped up, no messing about. Build it up for me.” I’m already buzzing, reaching for my phone to text Ryan. “Barracks night, you bare, your lads with condoms, one video—how many?” His reply’s quick: “Ten mates, me, Saturday. You’re on.”
Whiskey heads offshore Friday, leaving me restless, and I spend the day plotting. The kid’s sorted with my mum, and I pull out a green army print bodysuit—crotchless, clinging tight to my curves, leaving my arse bare—then lace up fishnet stockings and slip into combat heels. In the mirror, I’m a vision of filthy fantasy—tits squeezed high, legs stretched long, every inch screaming barracks bunny. Saturday evening, Ryan’s jeep hums outside, and he flashes a grin as I climb in. “Bunny’s back, eh?” he says, and I laugh, nerves dancing with excitement. The base looms ahead, a sprawl of noise and life, and he sneaks me past the gate, the air thick with the lads’ rowdy chatter as we slip into the barracks.
Inside, it’s a haze of testosterone—boots stomping, laughter bouncing off the walls—and Ryan sets my phone on a locker, angled just right, recording it all in one long, unbroken take. I step forward, bodysuit glinting under the dim lights, and ten soldiers turn, eyes wide. Ryan claps a hand on my shoulder, his voice carrying over the din. “She’s here for it, lads—me bare, you lot with rubbers, all for her man.” I catch my breath, nodding, and ease onto a mattress they’ve dragged to the center, the fishnets tugging as I stretch out, inviting them in with a smile. Four step up first—Gaz, wiry and eager, slipping a condom on before kissing my neck, sliding in slow and deep, my moans spilling out soft and loud; then Tommo, broad and grinning, wrapping up and taking me from behind, his hands gentle on my hips as I rock back, gasping for Whiskey. Lee’s next, lean and quiet, easing in with a steady rhythm that pulls shivers from me, and Si, all tattoos and smirks, joins last of the four, his thrusts firm but careful, the bodysuit stretching tight across my chest as I arch, coming with a cry that echoes through the room.
The energy shifts, and six more crowd in—faces I don’t clock, just bodies in a blur of lust, each grabbing a condom from the pile Ryan’s tossed down. They move with me, one after another, hands roaming over the fishnets, tearing holes wider, their breaths hot and ragged as they take turns—some kneeling, some standing, all keeping it wrapped, filling the air with low grunts and the creak of the mattress. I’m lost in it, moaning loud for the camera, my voice a wild thread weaving through their rhythm, coming again and again, heels scuffing the floor as the bodysuit frays under their grip. Then Ryan steps up, last and bare, his eyes locked on mine. “Bunny’s mine now,” he murmurs, sliding in raw, thick and warm, pushing deep until I’m trembling, clinging to him as he thrusts harder, the lads cheering, “Cream her, mate!” He does—hot, spilling inside, dripping out slow as he pulls back, leaving me a panting, glistening mess on the mattress, the video capturing every second.
Later, alone at home, I edit the footage, my heart thumping. Sunday, I send the first chunk—just the four lads, condoms clear, my moans ringing out. “Barracks part one, rules good,” I text Whiskey. His reply’s instant: “Fuckin’ hell, Muffin, that’s lush—got me hooked. More?” Monday, I drop the next bit—six more, still wrapped, the chaos building, fishnets in tatters. “Part two, your bunny’s busy,” I send, and he’s back fast: “Bloody brilliant, love, dying for the rest.” Tuesday, I let the final piece fly—Ryan bare, finishing inside, the lads’ cheers, me dripping on the bunk. “Last bit, bare him, full me, noisy as fuck,” I text, and Whiskey’s response lands sharp and hot: “Jesus, Muffin, that’s the one—dripping, loud, perfect. Rules spot on, bunny’s gold.” I’m grinning, combat heels kicked off, knowing I’ve reeled him in deep, trust solid as ever. |
