MILITARY!TOM HOLLAND X READER (NOT BASED ON CHERRY)
Summary: The British army is ruthless. Especially with someone as equally ruthless as Sergeant Holland. So it’s advised that you don’t break the rules. Except you do. And Sergeant Holland has a certain punishment in store for you.
Themes: SMUUTTT (18+)
Includes: dom!tom, use of sex toys, mirror sex (ish), oral (fem rec), slight sir kink, overstimulation
MASTERLIST // PART 2 // PART 3
Military training is hard.
You always knew it was going to be hard because you were warned of what to expect: unbearably early mornings, insufferable body cramp as a result of conditioning days prior, the strict discipline of the staff, each of them regimented in their own deranged way, and the push for resilience to face new challenges every single day. Recruitment officers warned you when you signed up that you were about to experience true exhaustion like you had never felt before. That it was a test of mental, physical and emotional endurance and that natural selection was a key element in completing your training - the British Army didn’t want civi’s, they wanted soldiers. They warned that, above all, they could not guarantee your survival. Yeah, you knew what you were signing up for.
Just days in was when you started to realise that the recruitment officers weren’t exaggerating for the sake of putting you off, no, they were trying to prepare you. Those who didn’t take the warnings seriously were the recruits who didn’t last more than a month. Tired, weak and broken, they faced the shame - or relief, depending on the person - of dropping out and returning back to civilisation. As for you, and a handful of others in your squadron, determination drove you to continue, convincing yourself that you could make it when you sensed that you were slowly, but surely adapting to the dangerous lifestyle and the long, gruelling days of training. By the end of the second month, your emotional security was somewhat still intact, your body was fitter and stronger than before and your mind hadn’t completely snapped. Things were starting to look positive.
Bright and early, you enter the mess hall with a yawn, mindlessly shuffling over to Squadron B’s table. Already sitting are your friends and fellow recruits, Archer, Stevens and Clark. First names don’t exist in the army, it has become a habit to refer to each other by surnames. Only the staff refer to you by insults.
You crook an eyebrow when you notice that you are one man short at the table.
“Where’s Sanders?” you ask.
“Don’t know,” shrugs Archer. “He got caught smoking in his dorm yesterday.”
“Shit. How dumb do you have to be to get caught by Osterfield?” You snigger but Archer glances at you solemnly, your mocking runs cold in his bones.
“It wasn’t Osterfield that caught him…”
You look back up to him, stunned. “Then who?”
The boys around you curse in hushed murmurs. You sigh heavily, pinching the bridge of your nose between your eyes knowing that Squadron B will be a man down for the entire day. No sympathy is to be spared for squadrons with missing recruits with the reality being that when you’re out there in combat and in enemy territory fighting for your lives, no enemy will sympathise for you. You remember the day Clark slept in, which left the four of you to tackle a full medevac drill which in itself would normally be fine, but The Dutch ordered for two of you to play the injured for failure to cooperate as a team. Needless to say, Clark still got absolutely slaughtered by The Dutch afterwards.
So not only do you feel sympathy for yourselves and the day that lies ahead, but sympathy for Sanders, for anyone that has ever experienced the wrath of The Dutch.
The Dutch, or better known as Sergeant Holland, is the physical embodiment of torture. He is brutal, demanding and his presence alone is a mental torment that puts the devil himself to shame. He has a keen eye for the weak and a proclivity for reducing them down to their most vulnerable before ultimately breaking them. For every life he enters, he makes sure to tread heavily, bearing his footprint to leave behind him a trail of trauma wherever they go. Sergeant Holland is nothing but an absolute monster of a man. He is downright insane and there is nothing on Earth that you would not sacrifice to avoid being his next victim. People may think you would be exaggerating, but then again, people thought the recruitment officers were exaggerating…
However, Sergeant Holland poses more of a threat to you than any other member of your squadron, more than what he even realises, because what you’ve discovered is the curse of being a woman. A curse more dangerous than the man himself, it leads you blindly astray from his short-circuit temper, or his horrible methods of intimidation and authority, pulling the wool over your eyes and seeing that, despite everything, Sergeant Holland is a very attractive man.
You all stand to attention, breakfast quickly disregarded as Sergeant Osterfield enters the mess hall, followed very closely behind by The Dutch. Both of them are donning enraged faces, inconceivable at 5:30 in the morning, and stand poised in the middle of the room. An audible gulp is heard behind you.
Although Osterfield likes to believe he has authority, even the rookies can recognise that it’s Sergeant Holland that quietly dominates.
“It seems that some of you think we’re providing hotel services,” Osterfield announces, his voice lacking the same emotion his face conveys and it’s the reason why nobody flinches; he doesn’t have the presence to intimidate. Again, that responsibility lies with The Dutch. Nevertheless, he continues as The Dutch begins to saunter around the perimeter of the room like an omnipresent ghost, arms folded, observing, listening, intimidating. “Some of think you can do whatever the fuck you want. But this is the fucking army. So you can’t.”
God, he sounds like a child having a tantrum. You peer over to your left to see Squadron A keeping their eyes down, hiding their smirks.
“Something distracting you, soldier?” From nowhere, a gravelly voice hums directly into your ear from over your shoulder. It takes every ounce of willpower to prevent you from flinching, but under his scrutinous eyes, nothing goes amiss. You’ve never been directly addressed by The Dutch before, and as the realisation hits, your heart thumps harder. As conditioned upon hearing his voice, your head whips forward, stoic, emotionless, very much like your response.
“So why isn’t your attention on Sergeant Osterfield?” His voice crawls closer to you, so much so that you are certain you feel the soft sweep of the tip of his nose skim across the baby hairs you let loose from your bun. Alongside first names, personal space is another thing that ceases to exist in the army.
“No reason, sir.”
“Then I’ll give you a reason.” His words are laced with venom as his threat falls upon your ears. As he takes slow and calculated steps to circle you, you subconsciously shift your weight, a tell-tale sign you are suffering under his oppression. All too soon, his chest meets with your eyes and you refrain from looking at him directly because that’s how he gets you; a glare so intense it’ll make anyone cower.
“Contraband!” He shouts, words loud enough to slap you in the face. The echoes bounce endlessly across the room before it falls deathly silent, smirks wiped clean from faces. Sergeant Holland takes the foreground and leads the demonstration, Osterfield quickly forgotten about. “Beer, cigarettes, snacks, weed. According to your new best friend, Sanders, there’s a shit tonne of it. All stashed in your dorms.” There’s a momentary pause to let the message sink in, and the panic to begin. The Dutch seems to thrive off the collective flood of fear that fills the room, and all of a sudden, it’s hard to breathe. “Isn’t that right, Sanders?”
Nobody even notices Sanders lurking in the shadows until the words fall out of his mouth in a quiet whisper. Honestly, he looks like shit. Hollow eyes droop to the floor in humiliation, one that has certainly been inflicted on him by The Dutch and his sick, twisted investigation tactics no doubt. Poor fucker. Outed and exposed as a snitch, his future here doesn’t appear to be optimistic.
Everyone is afraid to admit what the Sergeants have just discovered. It’s true. Everyone has contraband, even you, and though it’s forbidden, nobody can deny how it makes training that much easier to do knowing that there is something rewarding at the end of it to indulge in. A self-rewarding pat on the back. Because God knows you never get anything of the sort from staff. Nobody ever gets caught because Osterfield usually carries out the dorm searches every week, too cursory in his searches to find the stash of cigarettes between the planks of the bunks, or the square of carpet cut out to conceal a hole filled with snacks and sweets. To him, if it was tidy, it would suffice. However, with The Dutch, it’s a completely different story. He is guaranteed to not make the same mistake.
Each and every one of you stand there radiating guilt, teeth chewing through your lips, cursing the irony of the mentality the army teaches you to have. ‘Teamwork; when one falls, you all fall.’ Of course, you understood the necessity of it out in the field. It had been the very first lesson you were ever taught; to trust each other, to cooperate as part of a team, to never leave any man or woman behind regardless of the depravity of the situation, and it was a lesson you all exercised daily. You would never be where you are without the help of your squadron.
But in this case, it has doomed you all. When one falls, you all fall.
“Dorm searches start immediately.” The Dutch turns to you, his steel expression holding you hostage. “Squadron B has volunteered to go first.”
A gasp slips between your lips and The Dutch smirks. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
You are helpless as you stand stationary by your bunk, a mere observer to Sergeant Holland ransacking your dorm. It takes approximately 1 minute and an absolute mess to find the four cans of beer hidden within the fake ceiling above your wardrobe, and an additional 30 seconds to find the stash of sweets down the side of your bunk. But he’s yet to find it all.
Guilt diseases you, it plagues your mind with images of the one place where your most treasured contraband is hidden, losing an inner battle to refrain from glancing over its location. In your head, your conscience is against you, screaming the words that you know The Dutch would absolutely love to hear - under the floorboard, under the floorboard, under the floorboard - but in a bid to keep what feels like your life, you bite your tongue. Hard. If he found this, it would simply be the end of you. You could cope with losing your confectionary, but this is something you cannot let him find.
The Dutch slams your wardrobe door, watching as the door falls off its hinges with little concern. Fists burled, he turns to you and catches your stare. He encroaches your space, standing toe-to-toe with you like an angry bull presenting a challenge, using everything in his power to unnerve you and break your silence. From his angry stare to his clenching jaw warns you he’s about to bite, then he asks you one simple question.
“Is that it?”
“Yes, sir.” You answer with as much conviction as you can, hoping that he’ll take the bait and leave. You hold your breath, waiting, pleading that he’ll just fucking leave.
Sergeant Holland glances over your features once more before he goes to take one step towards your door, one step towards your salvation but the creaking of the floorboards beneath his boot halts him. He slowly peers down as the thought enters his mind, and by the time he turns to you, it’s set in stone. Your blood runs cold, the colour draining from your cheeks as your heart stops dead in your chest. Defeated, and positively trembling with fear, you can’t bear to watch as Sergeant Holland wordlessly sinks to his knees, keeping those dark eyes pinned on you. Because he knows. Your guilty conscience hides nothing now.
“What have you got hidden under here?” He asks, but you sense it’s more of a demand. You swallow the thick lump, hesitant to speak.
“It’s...it’s nothing, sir.”
“That’s twice you’ve lied to me now. Do you want to make it a 3rd? What is under here?” His words are gritted, and though that would normally be something to coerce you into submission, you unequivocally refuse to say the words.
There is nothing about your body language that conveys innocence and he knows this. Years of training and experience of interrogation tactics gains him the upperhand; the wringing of your hands behind your back, the sickly, nauseating paling of your face under his stare and your resolution to avoid eye contact. Blame is written all over you.
His hand reaches in and grabs the small cardboard box, using his other hand to sweep away the thin layer of dust. Silence consumes the room while he opens it and lets his eyes widen as he discovers what you’ve been hiding this entire time, contraband unparalleled to anything your squadron have or know about. This was your personal secret that you would travel to the Earth’s end to protect. And the most intimidating man on this base holds it within the clutches of his hand.
Your small, but powerful, purple vibrator.
You are utterly mortified.
He stands, resuming his steel expression while tightly holding your sex toy in his hand. It’s alarming how unfazed he is considering the explicit nature and purpose of the purple device he holds carelessly, regardless, it doesn’t stop the blood rushing to your cheeks. You’ve completely broken away from your stance, shriveling into yourself with embarrassment and time seems to run on endlessly.
“You dirty little thing,” he whispers. When you look back up, you don’t expect to see him stand so close to you, nevertheless he’s right there, mingling his breath with your own, and you certainly don’t expect to see the callous smirk teasing the corner of his lips. Back pressed against the frame of your bunk, you have nowhere to run. Sergeant Holland purposely cages you in while he revels in your flustered state, amused by your inability to keep yourself together in front of him, tilting his head as he observes you crossing your legs beneath you.
“This,” he refers to your sex toy, holding it up in the space between you, “will be confiscated. It will stay with me, do you understand?” You nod, shame painted in your eyes. His head sinks lower, teeth gritted, voice threateningly quiet. “You will address me properly.”
“Good girl.” Those two, very simple words place a catastrophic effect on your heart as it skips a beat. The slight quiver of your breath confirms everything Sergeant Holland has suspected of you within the two minutes since unveiling your little secret. Lips parted, he swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, and keeps a keen eye for your reaction as he tucks your vibrator deep into his pocket. Your expression doesn’t deviate much from widened eyes and parted lips, even as he leans in to whisper his words directly into your ear.
“You will receive your punishment after your training. See me in my office at 2200 hours.”
You haven’t been able to divert your eyes away from the clock as it ticks closer and closer to 10pm. You’ve bitten away all of your nails, trembling with nausea swirling in your stomach in anticipation of your discipline. Everyone else in Squadron B has already received theirs, returning with very little colour to their cheeks and lacking life in their eyes. You don’t even ask what exactly The Dutch’s discipline entails, you rather not know what you are about to face. It would make the short journey to his office twice as daunting as it already is.
You sit in the lonely chair outside his office. The ambience of people walking and conversing in the surrounding hallways has quickly dissipated into the late hours of the night. The buzz from the harshly bright lights above you is the only thing you can hear; it makes you wonder how Sergeant Holland, being as he is, can be so quiet in his office. The thought is short-lived as the door swings open and in one fell swoop he appears in the doorway. You stand to attention, locking all of your muscles in place.
“Sir,” you greet, ready for instruction albeit with the utmost dread.
“In,” he simply says.
His office is surprisingly small for a man of his rank, but rather than the size being an insult to his authority, you sense it’s more based on his efficiency. His plethora of awards, medals and decorations fit neatly into the glass display cabinet tucked into the corner where above it hangs a Union Jack, colours bright and bold. His desk lacks familial intimacies and stands proud in the centre of the room, facing directly towards the door. Probably a strategic move on his part to immediately face whoever dares enters his office.
You’ve never been in here before, and now that he has shut - slammed - the door behind you, you can feel the heat of tension rising in your body. Four walls enclose you in but you have to ignore it. You have been conditioned to stand, legs shoulders-width apart, arms tucked behind your back with your head held high, eyes forward with emotion nowhere to be seen.
At first he doesn’t say anything, nor does he move. He subjects you to the torment of the unprecedented for just a moment longer - he wants to drag this out for as long as he can. The sadistic fucker wants to make you suffer.
“Soldier, you are here to receive discipline on violating military code of conduct, possessing contraband and failure to demonstrate moral integrity. You have inadmissibly lied to superior members of staff resulting in failure to adhere to British Army principles. Do you understand?” He has now entered your periphery, wavering in just to your left. You gulp.
“Can you confirm that this…” he pulls your vibrator from his pocket and swivels it between his fingers that it’s almost sinful, “belongs to you?”
“Yes…” your voice comes out weak and strained, so you clear your throat and try again. “Yes, sir.” How could you forget how embarrassing it is to have your sex toy exposed like this? Your cheeks are burning.
Sergeant Holland stands directly in front of you and demands for your attention. Tentatively, your eyes lift to his. Behind that handsome face hides a dangerous mind. You can’t bear to think what sick method of discipline he’ll inflict on you, and considering how messed up the others were when they returned, your guess is that it’s all mental. He’ll worm his way into your head, mess with you, torment you, push you to your mental and emotional capacity before you crumble, all without laying a finger.
“As your superior…” his voice is quieter, but it’s heard all the same, “it’s my responsibility to punish you, to teach you a lesson.” A bead of sweat rolls down the back of your neck fluidly, your hands itching to wipe it away but obedience locks them behind your back. Suddenly, he snaps forward, crouching just an inch or two below full height and locks his gaze with yours. The precision of his quick movements make you flinch, trapping a breath in your lungs and he notices, lips curling momentarily. Just a second later, words flow out of his mouth like a lullaby but their motive is far from anything equally idyllic.
“You’ve been a bad girl,” he whispers. “A very, very bad girl.”
Your lips part in stupor, breath wavering in the space between you. With those words, you know, that whatever happens from this moment on, Sergeant Holland will not be following any official protocol but his own. You conclude in the split second of sanity you have that, unlike the others, your punishment is to be a little more personal...
“Turn around, soldier."
“Sir?” You plead with your eyes, heart pounding inside of you. He tilts his head, questioning your disobedience.
“I gave you an order. Turn. Around.”
You do, painstakingly slowly, bracing for whatever is to come. A controlled exhale draughts through your lips in a poor attempt to remain calm but who are you kidding? Your insanely attractive yet dangerous army Sergeant is standing so close behind you, ready to punish you and you’re trying to stay calm? Even the most experienced soldiers wouldn’t retain their composure.
Even through the thick lining of your army uniform, you can still feel the weight of his hands anchor down low on your hips. His body moulds into yours, wrapping his arms around your waist, eager hands running across the surface of your stomach to find sanctuary in the dips of your hips, locking you in. A gasp slips innocently from your throat when he pinches his fingers into your sides and pulls you just close enough that his chin rests comfortably upon the crook of your shoulder. Your mind is collapsing in on you, almost dazed that a man with such attention to conduct and discipline would abuse his power. A power so formidable that with each touch, he lures you further into his embrace, sinking deeper into his trap while his lips sink deeper into your neck.
Inexplicably, you find yourself tilting your head, opening yourself up to him while he places feather-like kisses up the column of your neck. Quite frankly, it’s startling. You never pinned Sergeant Holland to be gentle in any way, but yet, you stand here, so easily falling victim to his seduction. Soon, the tension in your body disperses and your arms hang loosely by your sides.
When he senses you fully embracing him, he pulls your earlobe between his lips and bites down.
“Ah!” you wince.
“So easy.” A sinful moan hums against your ear as he returns to kissing your skin. “Don’t let yourself get too comfortable, soldier. This is your punishment, remember?” Just as that little reminder seeps into your head, his hands begin expertly unbuckling your belt, pulling loose of all your constraints, just enough to slip his hand in underneath the layers of clothes. The hand that also contains your vibrator.
At first, the shock of his cold hands against your burning skin forces your hips to buckle, only exacerbating the situation by grinding against him. He suppresses a groan, exhaling roughly into your temple. Adamant, he runs the silicone tip of the vibrator down the length of your slit, coating it in your slick before settling it directly against your clit. But he doesn’t press the button, no, Sergeant Holland is one to taunt and tease so you know exactly who’s in charge.
He subtly circles the tip around your bud. “You want this?”
“Yes, sir,” you whisper.
“Of course you do. Dirty, little thing. But you’re missing something…”
“Please, sir.” His movements don’t stop and you can feel your hips chasing him in every direction. With his lips attached to your pulse, he hums as if mulling it over.
“I don’t think you deserve it,” he concludes. The caressing of your clit slows to almost nothing and it’s absolutely tantalising, breaking your sanity into two. You’re almost beginning to anticipate the vibrations to start buzzing against your clit, but Sergeant Holland makes it clear that his intentions are to avoid anything of the sort.
The more he teases you, the more he coaxes you into a climax, the harder it is to resist the sob that’s bubbling in your throat. Your head rests fully flush against his shoulder, physically straining to push yourself into release but he always refuses you before you have the chance. Within seconds he can build you up, swirling the tip of your sex toy around your pulsing clit, the damn thing isn’t even on, and just as quickly, if not faster, shuts you down.
“Please, sir, please. Just turn it on.”
“If I do…” he nibbles on your earlobe, “it’ll only make it worse for you.” You don’t doubt him, but your desperation is stronger than your doubt because right now, you’ll do anything for the sweet feeling you know awaits.
“Yes, sir, plea-oh! Fuck!”
Instantly, the vibrator buzzes to life and your breath stutters. The powerful little thing softly pulses against your clit as Sergeant Holland dances it around in circles, knees buckling beneath you. You have to grapple onto his arms to keep yourself from succumbing to the pleasure he teases with, yet he seems subdued as he continues to nibble and pierce the skin of your neck. He’s slow. Seductive. Feeding you with fluid movements to lull you into a false sense of security, held together by the firm, sturdy arm that keeps you standing and stable. His gentle reminder of this being a punishment easily gets swept aside, the pleasure too spellbinding to heed it. Sergeant Holland builds you up perfectly, leaving you teetering on the edge of orgasm quicker than you could yourself.
At the slightest movement of your legs closing, he kicks them apart, wider than before. “Stand to attention, soldier. Hands by your side.” You let loose a groan of frustration, every movement seeming like a mission when you have the sensuous buzzing of your sexy toy pressed directly onto your little bud. “Can’t believe I recruited a whore. Bet that’s what you fucking love. Being a whore for all these men.”
“No?” He shakes the toy from left to right very slightly, giving you just that extra push towards snapping. Your nails are burning into the skin of your palm. God, you’re so close to cumming on your Sergeant’s hand. “So just being a whore for me then-” His words stop abruptly as a new thought spawns. “You little slut. You wanted me to find this, didn’t you? Dangled this fucking thing in my face so I could use it on you, well, congratu-fucking-lations, you got what you wanted.” You don’t even have the strength to tell him that he’s wrong or that he’s completely misjudged the entire situation, besides, Sergeant Holland is a stubborn man. Telling him he is wrong is his equivalent to slapping him in the face. In the end, you let him have his delusions.
His hand clamps onto your forehead, yanking your head back completely against his shoulder and within seconds, his lips meet your ear.
“It’s going to be the biggest regret of your life.”
You hear a click. Then another. Then another, until the pulsing blurs together into one intolerable shock. You thrash around, three settings too high and the overstimulation ruins you. Fuck, you only ever used this thing on the first setting, anything past that was too powerful. Like the merciless bastard he is, cackling at your expense, Sergeant Holland has quadrupled the intensity and it’s completely consuming you. He palms his hand against the curve of your cunt harshly, pressing the toy further into you until you’re curling into yourself. Every instinct is telling you to rip his hands away from you, to break free from his hold but he’s unshakeable.
“Stop! Stop! Fuck!”
Struggling to contain you, he whips you around and presses your chest against the surface of his desk, cheek flat against the cool grain of the wood. All you can see is your own reflection in the sheen of the glass cabinet standing at the edge of the room staring back at you, teasing you with the wider image of Sergeant Holland completely demolishing you. It’s filthy yet deliciously salacious. You have a gleam of sweat glistening on your forehead, baby hairs sticking to your skin and neck where purple blemishes slowly materialise into existence. Your eyes follow the length of his arm, popping out from his shoulder to curve round your waist to sink below the hem of your army uniform, tensing as he moves it. Pupils blown wide, you imprint the image into your mind. It’s quite possibly the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen.
The last of his moral integrity slips away when he claims your first orgasm. As you lie there, quivering and panting, he smothers the repercussions of your orgasm with his own body weight, leaning down to press his chest flat against your back, and his bulge firmly against your ass.
When he finally relieves the toy, you sigh with relief.
“Absolutely soaked. Open your mouth, whore.” Obeying, he shoves the silicone tip into your mouth, a burst of bittersweet tanginess flooding your tongue. Watching you taste yourself has Sergeant Holland rutting his hips, delving deeper into your ass, stuttering when he reaches the confinement of your uniforms. “Hm,” he hums, acknowledging a slight envy growing in him. “Let me have a taste.”
He’s going to what?! Your head lifts slightly at the startling words. “Wait-”
“Head down.” Your face is slammed back into place by his hand clamping your head, leaving you to watch through the reflection of the glass cabinet again. “And keep your hands behind your back.”
Your body sways from side to side as Sergeant Holland drags down your layers of uniform until you have nothing but your frail, lilac underwear covering what’s left of your modesty. His knees knock onto the wooden floorboards and hearing their creaking brings back a wave of embarrassment just as it did back in your dorm. His hands roam the back of your thighs and ass, teasing a wince from you as the cool metal of his rings seers your skin. Then, his breath. A gentle, warm breeze fanning over you before he takes the dive.
You inhale so quickly that it stutters in your lungs, feeling his warm tongue slither up your covered slit and you almost can’t bear the tedious pace he moves with. A small whimper passes your lips, and he responds with a squeeze to your hips, fingers curling round to press against your hip bones, easing you away from the edge of the desk. He places a chaste kiss against your clit, still inexplicably buzzing from your previous orgasm unaided by the way his lips nuzzle into it. As his rank definitely proves, he’s a man that knows what he’s doing. The novelty of having whom you viewed as staff, both superior and authoritative, pleasure you so intimately has yet to wear off. And even now, as he buries his head between your thighs, you have to let the internal squeal loose.
With the slightness of his finger, he loops the material and drags it to the side, revealing everything to him. With that same finger, he runs it up and down the length of your cunt as if he’s acquainting himself to the shape of you. You shudder.
“Remember, soldier,” he husks, “hands behind your back.” With one final warning, he plunges his tongue deep into your core and like the flick of a switch, he’s demonic with lust. His engorged lips suckle on every part of your cunt as if it’s the elixir of life, toes curling at the overstimulation and arms twitching behind you. As much as you want to see the obscene reflection in the glass, you can’t keep your eyes open long enough to see it.
Just when you’re beginning to think you can’t take anymore, he proves you totally wrong. His amorous tongue finds the little bundle of nerves, abusing it as if it hasn’t had enough, as if he hasn’t had enough. He coates it with long, languid licks, staining his tongue with your taste as if he has an appetite to satisfy. You begin to wonder how long his dedication to the army - a very questionable one at that - has deterred him from his desires. Truly a man on a mission.
“Oh, shit,” you can feel the pang in your stomach ready to burst. “Shit.” A flick to your nerves and you writhe, squirming on the table as he chases after every one of your movements. “You’re going to make me cum!” Through the slits of your eyes, your face flushes at the reflection of Sergeant Holland’s face submerged between your ass. You look to yourself, a wordless expression of ‘what the fuck is going on?’ evident on your face.
For the second time tonight, Sergeant Holland has you cumming all over him. You cry out, unfiltered and uncaring for anyone who might have been walking past his office but in the back of your mind, you know it’s unlikely that anyone would want to be near Sergeant Holland’s office. Of course, that was what he had planned. You breathe through the raging rush of blood pumping straight towards your cunt, thankfully settling the gentler he becomes with his kisses. Deflated, you lie still on his desk, clenching through the ferocious pressure of liquid bliss in your lower abdomen, consciously aware of Sergeant Holland perched behind you, observing you. Curious, he follows your line of sight and catches the scene playing out in front of him in the reflection. He realises, quite quickly, that he becomes infatuated with the image of you, splayed half naked all over his desk utterly exhausted while he stands masterful over his work.
He hovers low and plants a gentle kiss to the back of your neck before catching your eye in the reflection.
“Such a pretty sight.” He gives a quick double tap to your ass. “You look as good as you taste.”
Seconds before exiting Sergeant Holland’s office, you hesitantly turn to him with one particular question burning your mind.
“Sir?” His eyes snap to yours. “What...what exactly was my punishment?”
He stands up straighter, arms folded and casually saunters over to you with a nervous hand on the door. Wordlessly, he slips his hand into your back trouser pocket, digging deep and reaching as far as the material allows him to give you one lasting squeeze to your bum, leaving behind your vibrator. You gasp. Why is he giving you it back? Before the question leaves your lips, he pulls you forward, a supporting hand resting upon his toned chest. There’s no hesitance to be seen as he leans down and captures your lips with his own. As expected, he’s demanding but passionate, sinking deeper into the kiss. When he withdraws, you observe the slight twinkle to his largely brown eyes.
“Your little toy is useless now. It won’t give you half the pleasure I can, and you won’t be able to get yourself off without me. It’s going to drive you crazy because there won’t be anything you can do. But guess what…” he whispers. You’re scared to ask.
“I’m not going to do anything about it either,” he smirks. “Dismissed, soldier.”
As you leave Sergeant Holland’s office, you walk through the dark hallways by yourself with your vibrator tucked safely in your pocket. Everytime you blink, scenes from your punishment replay before you, looping over and over and over again and even as you try to fall into a slumber, you fear that every second that ticks on following your punishment is going to be spent on the formidable Sergeant Holland.
If you think military training is hard, Sergeant Holland’s just made it a whole lot harder...