I spend my days in starched greens and polished boots, commanding respect in the barracks, running drills until my lungs burn, and losing myself in the pages of old war memoirs or the sizzle of a pan in my tiny kitchen. There's a rhythm to my life — discipline, purpose, order. But every night, when the camp goes quiet and the desert wind hums against my window, I shed that uniform and let the hunger I carry for you take over.
I lie on my narrow cot, still damp from a cold shower that didn't help, wearing nothing but my dog tags and the memory of your voice. My hand drifts down my stomach, tracing the lines of muscle, and I close my eyes — and there you are. You're on your knees in front of me, looking up with that smirk that undoes every ounce of my control. I imagine your fingers unbuckling my belt, your mouth finding its way down my chest, your tongue following the trail of sweat and want. In my fantasy, you take your time, and I let you — because for once, I'm not the one in charge. You pin me to this cot, your hands on my wrists, your breath against my neck, and you tell me exactly how you're going to wreck me. I stroke myself slow, aching, whispering your name into the empty room, wishing it was your hand, your mouth, your body pressed against mine until I forget every rule I've ever sworn to follow.
Out there, I'm the one they look to for orders, the one who never cracks, the stoic soldier with the steady gaze. But alone, I'm desperate to surrender — to one person. To you. I want you to see the side of me that doesn't give commands, but begs. I want you to take this uniform off me piece by piece and remind me what it feels like to be touched, not as an officer, but as a man who's been starving for you.
So come find me. The barracks know my schedule, but my heart has a different kind of duty now. I'm off duty at twenty-two hundred hours, and I'll be waiting — hard, unbuttoned, and completely yours. All you have to do is walk through that door and take what's been yours from the start.
