#alejandro vargas

John Price

It’s rare, but it happens. Missions don’t always progress the way you want, the outcomes diverting from the plans, leaving Price and his team stranded. Humans are unpredictable. They’re funny that way.

Which is why they’re laying low, taking refuge in an abandoned farmhouse in the English countryside. There are no roads, not paved, anyway. No one will come looking for them here.

“Water still works,” comes Kyle’s voice. “Surprising with no power. Think they’d cut this place off.”

Price removes his shirt, groaning. It’s filthy. Covered in blood. Not his but the fabric’s stiff. He doesn’t want to sleep in it.

“Steaming Jesus, Captain. What happened to your back?” chortles Johnny. Price starts to form a reply but the man keeps going. “You shag that lass at the pub?”

“Johnny,” warns Simon.

“Gaz!” Johnny shouts. “Come here and see Captain’s back!”

“Sergeant,” sighs Price, turning to glare at Johnny, only to discover his back as he chats away at Kyle.

“You remember? That bonnie thing Price kept eyeing?” From the corner, Simon snorts, head resting on his pack, eyes closed behind the mask as he stretches out on his sleeping bag.

“Scratch marks,” guffaws Johnny. “Fucking bright pink.”

“Sergeant!”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle hisses between his teeth, back stinging as he inspects himself in the mirror. He’s alone in the communal showers—as alone as he can be. Ghost and Soap are in here, too, but they’re behind their own respective curtains.

He lightly probes the tender marks. None are bleeding, but they’re only scratches. They’re just raw and haven’t scabbed over properly. Your nails didn’t cut all that deep, leaving behind thin raised lines that are slightly darker than his skin.

There are a fuck ton though. When he was balls deep, Kyle didn’t think much of it at the time. The pain from your nails was distant. All he knew was how tight and wet your pussy was.

“Kyle!” Johnny’s voice startles. Kyle pivots quickly, finding his teammate half-in, half-out of the shower. “Can you—what is that?”

Kyle blinks, confused. “What?”

Johnny’s surprise becomes wicked glee. “On your back.” He laughs. “You fucker.” He steps out, completely naked, yanking back Simon’s curtain. “Ghost!”

“Fucking hell, Johnny!” snarls Simon.

“Did you know Kyle had a shag last night?”

Simon’s hand connects with Johnny’s face, pushing him backward. “Fuck off,” he growls, yanking the shower curtain shut. “And good for him.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Turn around.”

“No.”

“Let us see, Johnny.”

“Yeah. You’re always having a go at us.”

Johnny won’t turn. He won’t. Any other time he might show off, flaunt the scratch marks, boast about his dick and how good he fucks, but they’ve caught him unawares. Snuck right up and cornered him. They’ll get nothing from him.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” shrugs Johnny. Leaning in, he wiggles his eyebrows at Simon. “If you want me to drop my towel, all you have to do is ask.”

Simon’s mouth quirks but otherwise sustains his stoic nature. “Cute, Johnny.”

“What’s the matter?” asks Kyle. “Embarrassed?”

“No—” Kyle reaches forward and lightly slaps Johnny’s left shoulder, making contact with the fresh scratch marks. “Fuck!” Johnny swats at Kyle’s hand. “That fucking hurt.”

“Still fresh,” laughs Kyle, observing his fingers. “Still bleeding.”

“Are you hiding her, Johnny?” teases Simon. “Not interested in sharing?”

Fuck.

This might be their private showers and workout space, but Johnny doesn’t really want to share you, even though Simon is right. You are here, hiding.

Simon’s gaze drops to Johnny’s dick and then flicks back up. “That’s pussy slick.” He points at Johnny’s crotch. “Hair’s wet, too.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

As Simon removes his shirt, smothered laughter erupts behind him. The wheeze is Johnny, face likely going red as he attempts to breathe. The cough-snort is Kyle. No question. Simon takes a steadying breath before depositing the sweat-soaked shirt onto the bench.

He turns, finding the two men desperate for air. “What?” he growls. Johnny’s face grows redder and Kyle hides his face in his hands. “Spit it out.”

“Your back,” Johnny manages between clenched teeth. He chokes on his next breath and it all falls apart. They can’t hold it in, falling into hysterical laughter. “Have it off with a cat?”

The image of you under him, legs spread, pussy stretched and perfectly taking his cock instantly rises, enveloping Simon in a lecherous embrace.

“Something like that,” answers Simon.

Johnny crouches, arms up, hands curled like a pretend monster. He makes a strangled meow while scratching the air.

“Soap,” laughs Kyle. “Christ, mate.”

Simon simply stares at them, outwardly unamused, but not on the inside. “Knock it off.”

Johnny switches to an imitation of a feminine voice, volume rising. “Oh, Simon,” he sing-songs. “Harder. HARDER!”

Kyle and Johnny devolve into fits, attempting to moan dramatically but only sounding strangled.

Alejandro Vargas

“Shouldn’t let the others see.”

Alejandro turns his head, finding Rudy leaning against the locker next to his. He’s already dressed and ready, but Rudy is always punctual, which means early.

“Let the others see what?” asks Alejandro.

Rudy’s mouth curves into a knowing smile. He tilts his head to the side, gaze pointedly on Alejandro back, to the accumulation of scratch marks. Lingering a moment, Rudy slowly shifts his gaze back to Alejandro.

“Those,” he indicated with a nod of his head. “It’s all they’ll talk about for weeks.”

Alejandro snorts, rolling his eyes, putting on a fresh shirt before adding the rest of his uniform. “They won’t.”

“They will,” insists Rudy. “Give you hell about it, too.”

“Like you are? Right now?”

Rudy doesn’t take the bait. “Which one was it?”

Alejandro sighs. “Does it matter?”

Rudy shrugs. “Marked you up good. A few look deep.”

Not surprising. Alejandro goes home with prostitutes because there aren’t any strings, and you, his favorite of the bunch, always go with him. For the money, yes, but also for his large cock and how he uses it. The scratch marks are evidence.

“You know which one,” answers Alejandro.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

You’re in the kitchen, humming a tune while making a snack for yourself and him, when Johnny comes in from the garage, still greasy from tinkering with his truck.

You’re wearing shorts for once because it’s warm inside the house despite winter warring outside, and the silver anklet with its tiny star and moon charms catches the light as you shift your weight.

Johnny stops dead, toolbox clattering to the floor. “Fuckin’ hell, hen.”

Next thing you know he’s on you—grubby hands on your hips, spinning you, lifting you onto the counter as you yelp. He drops to a crouch, mouth hot against your calf, kissing up to the anklet like it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Johnny!”

“Look at this wee beauty,” he groans, teeth grazing the chain as your protest dissolves into flustered giggles. “Makes yer legs look even more edible.”

“Jesus Christ, Johnny—” you bemoan in fond exasperation while he spreads your thighs wide to bury his face between them, licking over the seam of your cotton shorts until the fabric is soaked with his saliva and your own slick before he yanks it down your thick legs, panties included.

“Not in front of the bloody sandwiches!” you squeal, but our thighs part wider for him, and Johnny eats you out right there on the kitchen counter, groaning and slurping into your cunt until you’re shaking, keeping one greasy hand wrapped around your ankle, thumb rubbing over the charms like he can’t get enough.

John Price

You’re curled on the couch beside him watching some documentary he picked. You’ve kicked off your warm slippers; legs stretched across his lap.

The new gold anklet—simple chain with a tiny compass charm—gleams against your skin when you flex your foot and wiggle your painted toes absently. Price’s hand stills on your thigh. His gaze drops, then darkens instantly.

“When did you get that, love?” he asks, his voice a rough murmur while his calloused thumb drags over the charm.

“Yesterday,” you answer with a cheeky smile as you clock that look in his eyes. “Used your credit card like you told me to.”

John lifts your leg gently, brings your foot to his mouth, and kisses the inside of your ankle right where the chain rests with a low groan. The gold warms against his lips, his coarse beard rasps against your supple skin.

“Christ, you’re trying to kill me, sweetheart.”

And he spends the next twenty minutes worshipping your legs—slow kisses up your calf, teeth scraping the soft flesh of your thigh—until he’s hard and aching against his pants. Then he pulls you into his lap, slides your panties aside, and sinks into you in one smooth thrust, hands locked around your ankles so the little compass jingles softly with every roll of his hips.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

You’re getting ready for bed, sitting at the vanity and fixing your bonnet in your robe, when Kyle walks past in his boxers, stops, and does a double take.

You’ve crossed your bare legs, and the delicate silver anklet with its tiny butterfly charms catches the lamplight.

He’s behind you in seconds, hands on your shoulders, mouth at your ear. “Now when did you start wearing that?”

You flash a cheeky smile at his reflection. “Thought it was cute.”

“Cute,” Kyle repeats with a snort, like the word personally offends him. He spins your chair, kneels, and lifts your foot into his lap. His thumb traces the chain, then the curve of your ankle, then higher. “You’ve no idea what this does to me, do you?”

You’re very aware that he has a thing for your feet, and the anklet pushes him straight over the edge.

“Oh, I have a little hunch, Garrick,” you snicker while Kyle kisses every manicured toe, gently licks along the smooth arch of your bejeweled foot, then works his way up your calf while his free hand slips between your thighs, finding your pussy bare.

“Need you, baby. Please,” he groans helplessly, peppering kisses along the inside of your plush thigh like you’re the queen and he’s the devoted subject.

However, by the time he’s got you maneuvered on the bed, Kyle fucks you with your legs thrown over his broad shoulders, folding you in half with his hazel eyes fixed on the way the butterflies flutter and dangle so prettily against your skin with every thrust, telling you breathlessly how perfect your thick, soft legs look wrapped in silver.

Nikolai

You’re in the hangar next to his cabin in the mountains, barefoot on the cold concrete, helping him sort through a crate of smuggled parts.

The new gold anklet—thick chain that resembles the one he wears around his neck—shifts against your skin as you bend and stretch.

Nikolai notices, pauses mid-reach, dark eyes narrowing. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his handsome face.

“Milaya moya,” he drawls, voice thick with his accent, “what is this little thing you hide from me?”

“What do you even mean?” you reply with a soft huff, still rummaging and shifting on your feet as the cold starts biting your skin.

He drops the wrench with a clang, crosses the space between you, and lifts your leg without warning, hooking it over his hip while you yelp then giggle.

“This,” Nikolai growls. His rough palm slides up your calf, thumb pressing the chain so the metal bites just enough to make you gasp next. “Gold suits you,” he murmurs, leaning down to drag his teeth along the links. “Makes me want to mark you with something even prettier.”

“Oh… that—” You squirm in his grip as he handles you so effortlessly; his eyes flick up to meet yours. “Da, that.”

You end up braced against the side of his helo, legs spread wide and standing on your tiptoes, his cock buried deep from behind while one mammoth hand of his stays wrapped around your throat, gentle and grounding.

“Next time, you’ll wear one with my name on it,” he growls against your nape, groaning shamelessly in between thrusts while your nails scrape against metal.

Alejandro Vargas

You’re barefoot in the kitchen of the ranch house, reaching for a glass on the top shelf. The late sunlight catches the new gold anklet—thin chain with a tiny sun charm and a little seashell dangling beside it.

Alejandro freezes in the doorway, duffel still over his shoulder from the drive home, the collar of his fatigues clinging to his sweaty neck. His dark chocolate eyes lock on your ankle, then slowly travel up the curve of your calf, the soft thickness of your thigh under the pale blue sundress.

“Ay, mi vida,” he breathes, his voice turning rough at the edge. “¿Cuándo compraste eso?” He drops the bag with a thud, crosses the room in two strides, and sinks to his knees right there on the tile like he’ll start praying any second.

“Today,” you answer, smiling down while you rake your fingers through his messy, raven locks. “Bought it as a little treat for myself… and you.”

He chuckles, eyes glinting mischievously while his strong, gloved hands slide up your legs, thumbs tracing the chain gently. He presses open-mouthed kisses along your ankle, teeth grazing the gold until the metal warms against your skin.

“Looks so damn pretty on you,” Alejandro growls, already pushing the dress higher before disappearing under the flowy skirt, his next words muffled as he presses his face against your clothed cunt: “Makes me want to ruin the rest of you.”

“Alejandro!”

You gasp audibly, hands grappling to grip the edge of the kitchen counter for support while he’s too busy mouthing at the thin cotton of your panties.

Rodolfo Parra

You’re curled on the couch, reading, when Rudy enters through the open sliding doors facing the backyard, still dusty from training recruits all day.

You stretch your legs across his lap when he sits with a tired groan, and the delicate silver anklet—a simple chain with a tiny heart and a little cross charm—glints against your skin.

His breath audibly catches. You glance up from your book, blinking slowly as you watch and feel his hand on your calf, one thumb brushing the chain like it’s fragile before he lifts your leg to take a closer look.

“Hermosa… when did you start wearing this?” His voice is soft, almost reverent.

“I found it in my jewelry box today,” you answer, closing the book without bothering to remember the page. “Thought it might be cute. Is it too much?”

“Too much?” His pupils blow as he lifts your foot, kisses the inside of your ankle right over the anklet, then higher, slow and deliberate, while your breath keeps hitching and your cheeks begin to burn.

The metal cools then warms naturally under his lips and sweet attention.

“Come here, cariño. Let me love you.”

And you end up straddling your husband on the couch, dress pushed up to your waist, his hands cradling your thick thighs while he rocks up into you. Every slow thrust makes the anklet chime softly against his wrist while keeps whispering “tan perfecta, mi amor” against your neck until you’re both trembling and sated.

Phillip Graves

You’re lounging by the pool at the ranch house your husband bought for you in Texas, legs dangling in the cool water, when Phillip steps out in swim trunks and aviator sunglasses.

The new rose-gold anklet—delicate links with a tiny lone star and a little horseshoe—catches the sun as you kick and splash lazily. He stops mid-stride, shades sliding down his nose as he tips them dramatically.

“Well, damn, darlin’.” He’s in the water before you can blink, strong hands on your hips pulling you to the very edge.

“What?” you ask languidly (because you know it gets him hot and bothered every time), adjusting your own sunglasses with the tip of your manicured finger. “Watch it. I just put on some tanning oil.”

Phillips grins dangerously, flashing pearly white teeth as he gropes and massages your calves. Water drips off him as he stands between your plush thighs, mouth already on your ankle as he lifts it, sucking the wet chain between his teeth and tugging playfully.

“Buying yourself pretty things that make your legs look this edible oughta be illegal, honey,” he drawls smugly in between kisses.

“Ugh, shut up, you silly man.” You tut, nudging your toes against his buff pecs, though it merely makes him groan aloud, blue eyes twinkling behind tinted glasses. “Make me.”

Phillip eats you out right there on the pool deck, water lapping at your calves; his merciless tongue greedy and shameless as ever as he devours his pretty wife. When he finally fucks you, it’s hard and fast against the lounger, one hand always gripping your ankle like he owns the jewelry and the woman wearing it.

König

You’re lounging on the large, custom-made bed, scrolling through your phone, when König ducks through the doorway, fresh from the gym.

You lift one leg to reach your foot and scratch an itch, and the sturdy silver anklet—a thicker chain to survive his handling, with a tiny crown charm—flashes against your moisturized skin. König visibly freezes at the sight, hood still half-on, big baby blues wide behind the T-shirt mask.

“Gott im Himmel,” he mutters, his voice slightly muffled. He’s across the room in a heartbeat, faster than anyone might expect, massive frame folding to his knees. Careful hands—always so incredibly careful with you—lift your foot like it’s precious.

You’re already smiling behind your screen when he presses his masked mouth to the chain, then yanks the fabric up just enough to kiss the skin underneath.

“So goddamn beautiful on you, Schatz,” he rumbles, his Austrian accent thick. “Makes me want to make a mess and keep you in bed forever.”

König has obvious foot worship tendencies, and the anklet sends him into overdrive.

“Can… I?” he asks tentatively, cock visibly straining against his grey sweats. And you roll your eyes with fond exasperation before resting your foot on his meaty thigh encouragingly. “Sure, baby. Go ahead.”

A visible shudder wrecks through him while he whimpers and fumbles to free his fat length, already flushed and weeping pre from its slit. And König spends ages kissing and massaging your feet and calves with one hand while stroking his cock with the other; fucking into his big fist until he paints your foot and delicate anklet with his load before licking it all clean under your gentle praise afterwards.

Keegan P. Russ

You’re sprawled on the couch in one of his old and worn-out Marine Corps hoodies and not much else, curvy legs stretched out leisurely, watching that one guilty pleasure Reality TV show of yours while eating popcorn.

The new matte black anklet—tactical-looking chain with a tiny skull and a little dog tag charm—catches the soft lamplight when you wiggle your toes to keep your feet from falling asleep.

Keegan, walking past and cracking a cold beer open, nearly stumbles. “Jesus Christ,” he groans, setting the can down hard on the coffee table as you glance up at him curiously. You’re ready to defend the show stubbornly, but he’s on you in seconds, tackling and pinning you on the couch beneath him while you squeal in surprise; long fingers tracing the black metal like it’s classified intel.

“Tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me again, baby?” His voice is lower now, rougher, and playfully accusing.

“What the fuck are you ta—AH!” He lifts your leg over his shoulder, mouth hot against your ankle, teeth scraping the chain before he bites your Achilles tendon. “Good enough to fuckin’ eat,” he growls. “Fuckin’ flexible, too, huh.”

That’s enough to knock the last bit of air from your lungs and make your pussy drip, and you watch his glacier blue eyes darken as soon as he catches onto that. His plump lips split into a shit-eating grin before he rocks his hips against yours.

“You’re such an asshole,” you whine, squirming helplessly.

“Tit for tat, baby,” Keegan murmurs, dipping his head to mouth and kiss along your neck; one large hand keeping a firm grip around that bejeweled ankle of yours.