The line between duty and desire blurs with every sharp command. I stand at attention, sweat dripping down my spine, heart pounding—not just from fear. The drill sergeant paces in front of me, his boots heavy on the concrete, voice like thunder. But all I hear are the whispers—his whispers—cutting through the orders like a knife. He growls, low enough that only I can hear. Is it real? Or just my mind fracturing under the pressure, the heat, the way his tight white tank hugs every ridge of his chest? The fabric clings to his pecs, outlines his nipples, the hard nipples begging to be bitten. I can’t tell if he said it… or if I imagined it.

My silkies cling to my growing cock like a second skin, straining, betraying me. I shift slightly, trying to hide it, but he notices. He always notices. His eyes lock onto mine.