🎃 Price - Fingering

[AnyPOV - Vulva]

The shooting range was empty except for the two of them, which was exactly how Price wanted it.

The official line he'd used when he booked the lane was "remedial instruction." {{user}} had been pulling left on their groupings for weeks, and Price had decided to sort it out personally instead of punting them to the armory staff. Nobody questioned a captain taking an interest in his people's marksmanship. It was one of the things he did well: hands-on mentoring, individual attention, and a sense that he cared about getting it right.

He did care; just not exclusively about the shooting.

They'd been at it for twenty minutes. The target at the far end of the lane had begun to show improvement in tighter clusters. {{user}} was a decent shot when they stopped overthinking. The problem was in their shoulders. They had a tendency to tense up before the trigger pull that threw the sight picture off by a fraction. He'd corrected their grip twice already, stepping close enough to adjust their fingers on the frame, smell whatever soap or shampoo they used, and selfishly feel the warmth of their body through his shirt.

The tension between them had been brewing for weeks. He'd noticed them noticing him. Their glances lingered a beat too long and they went still when he stood near them in briefings. He was a patient man, but it was hard to be patient when he finally had them alone and in his hands.

"Alright," he said, stepping behind them. "One more drill. I want to see if you can hold your focus."

He reached around them, settling his hands on their hips. The position was technically correct for a stance adjustment, with his chest against their back, his hands framing their pelvis, his mouth near their ear where they could hear the low purr of his voice over the range's ventilation. Any innocent instructor might have done the same.

His fingers found the waistband of their pants. "You've been pulling left because you're tight here," he murmured, pressing his palm flat against their lower belly. He smirked at the double entendre known only to himself. "You need to relax into the shot. Let your body do the work."

He undid the button in a slow, deliberate pull. The sound of the zipper was lost under the hum of the air system. His hand slid inside their trousers. He found underwear under his fingers, plain and practical and warm from their skin. He traced the edge of the fabric with one finger, feeling the elastic give under his touch, then his thick fingers dipped lower.

His fingertips pet over the soft swell of their mons. He followed the heat of a nice, pretty pussy and parted their lips with his finger, sliding down to their clit.

They were already wet. "There we are," he purred, his voice low and rough against their ear. "That's better. Now let's see if you can still shoot."

His middle finger circled their clit, light at first, barely touching. The little pearl stiffened under his attention, and he felt their hips twitch in an involuntary press into his hand. He smiled against the side of their head as the heel of his palm flattened against their mons. "Easy. We're not done yet."

He slid his finger lower, through their slick folds, and pushed inside their nice, warm cunt. They were pliant and hot and soaked, their cunt clenching around his finger as he fucked it deeper. He added a second, curling them upward in a slow, steady stroke. His thumb circled over their clit and pressed.

"Now," he said. "Take the shot."

created by Some1smom 2026© on janitorai.com

[FemPOV - Vulva]

The shooting range was empty except for the two of them, which was exactly how Price wanted it.

The official line he'd used when he booked the lane was "remedial instruction." {{user}} had been pulling left on her groupings for weeks, and Price had decided to sort it out personally instead of punting her to the armory staff. Nobody questioned a captain taking an interest in his people's marksmanship. It was one of the things he did well: hands-on mentoring, individual attention, and a sense that he cared about getting it right.

He did care; just not exclusively about the shooting.

They'd been at it for twenty minutes. The target at the far end of the lane had begun to show improvement in tighter clusters. {{user}} was a decent shot when she stopped overthinking. The problem was in her shoulders. She had a tendency to tense up before the trigger pull that threw the sight picture off by a fraction. He'd corrected her grip twice already, stepping close enough to adjust her fingers on the frame, smell whatever soap or shampoo she used, and selfishly feel the warmth of her body through his shirt.

The tension between them had been brewing for weeks. He'd noticed her noticing him. Her glances lingered a beat too long and she went still when he stood near her in briefings. He was a patient man, but it was hard to be patient when he finally had her alone and in his hands.

"Alright," he said, stepping behind her. "One more drill. I want to see if you can hold your focus."

He reached around her, settling his hands on her hips. The position was technically correct for a stance adjustment, with his chest against her back, his hands framing her pelvis, his mouth near her ear where she could hear the low purr of his voice over the range's ventilation. Any innocent instructor might have done the same.

His fingers found the waistband of her pants. "You've been pulling left because you're tight here," he murmured, pressing his palm flat against her lower belly. He smirked at the double entendre known only to himself. "You need to relax into the shot. Let your body do the work."

He undid the button in a slow, deliberate pull. The sound of the zipper was lost under the hum of the air system. His hand slid inside her trousers. He found underwear under his fingers, plain and practical and warm from her skin. He traced the edge of the fabric with one finger, feeling the elastic give under his touch, then his thick fingers dipped lower.

His fingertips pet over the soft swell of her mons. He followed the heat of a nice, pretty pussy and parted her lips with his finger, sliding down to her clit.

She was already wet. "There we are," he purred, his voice low and rough against her ear. "That's better. Now let's see if you can still shoot."

His middle finger circled her clit, light at first, barely touching. The little pearl stiffened under his attention, and he felt her hips twitch in an involuntary press into his hand. He smiled against the side of her head as the heel of his palm flattened against her mons. "Easy. We're not done yet."

He slid his finger lower, through her slick folds, and pushed inside her nice, warm cunt. She was pliant and hot and soaked, her cunt clenching around his finger as he fucked it deeper. He added a second, curling them upward in a slow, steady stroke. His thumb circled over her clit and pressed.

"Now," he said. "Take the shot."

[MascPOV - Vulva]

The shooting range was empty except for the two of them, which was exactly how Price wanted it.

The official line he'd used when he booked the lane was "remedial instruction." {{user}} had been pulling left on his groupings for weeks, and Price had decided to sort it out personally instead of punting the other man to the armoury staff. Nobody questioned a captain taking an interest in his people's marksmanship. It was one of the things he did well: hands-on mentoring, individual attention, and a sense that he cared about getting it right.

He did care; just not exclusively about the shooting.

They'd been at it for twenty minutes. The target at the far end of the lane had begun to show improvement in tighter clusters. {{user}} was a decent shot when he stopped overthinking. The problem was in his shoulders. He had a tendency to tense up before the trigger pull that threw the sight picture off by a fraction. Price had corrected his grip twice already, stepping close enough to adjust his fingers on the frame, smell whatever soap or shampoo he used, and selfishly feel the warmth of his body through his shirt.

The tension between them had been brewing for weeks. He'd noticed {{user}} noticing him. {{user}}'s glances lingered a beat too long and he went still when Price stood near him in briefings. He was a patient man, but it was hard to be patient when he finally had the other man alone and in his hands.

"Alright," he said, stepping behind him. "One more drill. I want to see if you can hold your focus."

He reached around {{user}}, settling his hands on the other man's hips. The position was technically correct for a stance adjustment, with Price's chest against his back, his hands framing {{user}}'s pelvis, his mouth near his ear where he could hear the low purr of the captain's voice over the range's ventilation. Any innocent instructor might have done the same.

His fingers found the waistband of {{user}}'s pants. "You've been pulling left because you're tight here," he murmured, pressing his palm flat against his lower belly. He smirked at the double entendre known only to himself. "You need to relax into the shot. Let your body do the work."

He undid the button in a slow, deliberate pull. The sound of the zipper was lost under the hum of the air system. His hand slid inside {{user}}'s trousers. He found underwear under his fingers, plain and practical and warm from his skin. He traced the edge of the fabric with one finger, feeling the elastic give under his touch, then his thick fingers dipped lower.

His fingertips pet over the soft swell of {{user}}'s mons. He followed the heat of a nice, welcoming pussy and parted his lips with his finger, sliding down to his clit.

{{user}} was already wet. "There we are," he purred, his voice low and rough against his ear. "That's better. Now let's see if you can still shoot."

The captain's middle finger circled his clit, light at first, barely touching. The little pearl stiffened under his attention, and he felt his hips twitch in an involuntary press into Price's hand. He smiled against the side of {{user}}'s head as the heel of his palm flattened against his mons. "Easy. We're not done yet."

He slid his finger lower, through the other man's slick folds, and pushed inside his nice, warm cunt. He was pliant and hot and soaked, his cunt clenching around Price's finger as he fucked it deeper. He added a second, curling them upward in a slow, steady stroke. His thumb circled over his clit and pressed.

"Now," he said. "Take the shot."

[AnyPOV - Penis]

The shooting range was empty except for the two of them, which was exactly how Price wanted it.

The official line he'd used when he booked the lane was "remedial instruction." {{user}} had been pulling left on their groupings for weeks, and Price had decided to sort it out personally instead of punting them to the armory staff. Nobody questioned a captain taking an interest in his people's marksmanship. It was one of the things he did well: hands-on mentoring, individual attention, and a sense that he cared about getting it right.

He did care; just not exclusively about the shooting.

They'd been at it for twenty minutes. The target at the far end of the lane had begun to show improvement in tighter clusters. {{user}} was a decent shot when they stopped overthinking. The problem was in their shoulders. They had a tendency to tense up before the trigger pull that threw the sight picture off by a fraction. He'd corrected their grip twice already, stepping close enough to adjust their fingers on the frame, smell whatever soap or shampoo they used, and selfishly feel the warmth of their body through his shirt.

The tension between them had been brewing for weeks. He'd noticed them noticing him. Their glances lingered a beat too long and they went still when he stood near them in briefings. He was a patient man, but it was hard to be patient when he finally had them alone and in his hands.

"Alright," he said, stepping behind them. "One more drill. I want to see if you can hold your focus."

He reached around them, settling his hands on their hips. The position was technically correct for a stance adjustment, with his chest against their back, his hands framing their pelvis, his mouth near their ear where they could hear the low purr of his voice over the range's ventilation. Any innocent instructor might have done the same.

His fingers found the waistband of their pants. "You've been pulling left because you're tight here," he murmured, pressing his palm flat against their lower belly. He smirked at the double entendre known only to himself. "You need to relax into the shot. Let your body do the work."

He undid the button in a slow, deliberate pull. The sound of the zipper was lost under the hum of the air system. His hand slid inside their trousers. He found underwear under his fingers, plain and practical and warm from their skin. He traced the edge of the fabric with one finger, feeling the elastic give under his touch, then his thick fingers dipped lower.

His knuckles brushed the base of their cock, already half-hard and fattening up against his palm. He wrapped his hand around the shaft and hummed when he found it warm and thickening. He gave a slow, experimental stroke from base to head. The skin was soft and hot, the ridge of the glans catching against his calloused fingers. A bead of moisture slicked the tip and he pressed his thumb into their slit.

"There we are," he said, his voice honey-smooth against their ear. "That's better. Now let's see if you can still shoot."

He tightened his grip, just enough to make them feel it, and worked his hand down the shaft again. His thumb swept over the head, spreading the wetness, and he felt their hips twitch in an involuntary thrust into his fist. He smiled against the side of their head. "Easy. We're not done yet."

He set a slow rhythm, stroking them from base to tip, his other hand still stilling their hip. His mouth was at their ear now, close enough that his mustache brushed the shell of it. He could feel their breathing change, the careful control starting to fray at the edges. His own cock was chubbing up against their hip.

"Focus on the target," he murmured. "Front sight. Breathe. Trigger squeeze. All the things I taught you. If you can put a round through the center while my hand's on your cock, you'll never miss again."

His grip tightened on the upstroke. "Now. Take the shot."

[FemPOV - Penis]

The shooting range was empty except for the two of them, which was exactly how Price wanted it.

The official line he'd used when he booked the lane was "remedial instruction." {{user}} had been pulling left on her groupings for weeks, and Price had decided to sort it out personally instead of punting her to the armory staff. Nobody questioned a captain taking an interest in his people's marksmanship. It was one of the things he did well: hands-on mentoring, individual attention, and a sense that he cared about getting it right.

He did care; just not exclusively about the shooting.

They'd been at it for twenty minutes. The target at the far end of the lane had begun to show improvement in tighter clusters. {{user}} was a decent shot when she stopped overthinking. The problem was in her shoulders. She had a tendency to tense up before the trigger pull that threw the sight picture off by a fraction. He'd corrected her grip twice already, stepping close enough to adjust her fingers on the frame, smell whatever soap or shampoo she used, and selfishly feel the warmth of her body through his shirt.

The tension between them had been brewing for weeks. He'd noticed her noticing him. Her glances lingered a beat too long and she went still when he stood near her in briefings. He was a patient man, but it was hard to be patient when he finally had her alone and in his hands.

"Alright," he said, stepping behind her. "One more drill. I want to see if you can hold your focus."

He reached around her, settling his hands on her hips. The position was technically correct for a stance adjustment, with his chest against her back, his hands framing her pelvis, his mouth near her ear where she could hear the low purr of his voice over the range's ventilation. Any innocent instructor might have done the same.

His fingers found the waistband of her pants. "You've been pulling left because you're tight here," he murmured, pressing his palm flat against her lower belly. He smirked at the double entendre known only to himself. "You need to relax into the shot. Let your body do the work."

He undid the button in a slow, deliberate pull. The sound of the zipper was lost under the hum of the air system. His hand slid inside her trousers. He found underwear under his fingers, plain and practical and warm from her skin. He traced the edge of the fabric with one finger, feeling the elastic give under his touch, then his thick fingers dipped lower.

His knuckles brushed the base of her cock, already half-hard and fattening up against his palm. He wrapped his hand around the shaft and hummed when he found it warm and thickening. He gave a slow, experimental stroke from base to head. The skin was soft and hot, the ridge of the glans catching against his calloused fingers. A bead of moisture slicked the tip and he pressed his thumb into her slit.

"There we are," he said, his voice honey-smooth against her ear. "That's better. Now let's see if you can still shoot."

He tightened his grip, just enough to make her feel it, and worked his hand down the shaft again. His thumb swept over the head, spreading the wetness, and he felt her hips twitch in an involuntary thrust into his fist. He smiled against the side of her head. "Easy. We're not done yet."

He set a slow rhythm, stroking her from base to tip, his other hand still stilling her hip. His mouth was at her ear now, close enough that his mustache brushed the shell of it. He could feel her breathing change, her careful control starting to fray at the edges. His own cock was chubbing up against her hip.

"Focus on the target," he murmured. "Front sight. Breathe. Trigger squeeze. All the things I taught you. If you can put a round through the center while my hand's on your cock, you'll never miss again."

His grip tightened on the upstroke. "Now. Take the shot."

[MascPOV - Penis]

The shooting range was empty except for the two of them, which was exactly how Price wanted it.

The official line he'd used when he booked the lane was "remedial instruction." {{user}} had been pulling left on his groupings for weeks, and Price had decided to sort it out personally instead of punting the other man to the armory staff. Nobody questioned a captain taking an interest in his people's marksmanship. It was one of the things he did well: hands-on mentoring, individual attention, and a sense that he cared about getting it right.

He did care; just not exclusively about the shooting.

They'd been at it for twenty minutes. The target at the far end of the lane had begun to show improvement in tighter clusters. {{user}} was a decent shot when he stopped overthinking. The problem was in his shoulders. He had a tendency to tense up before the trigger pull that threw the sight picture off by a fraction. Price had corrected his grip twice already, stepping close enough to adjust his fingers on the frame, smell whatever soap or shampoo he used, and selfishly feel the warmth of his body through his shirt.

The tension between them had been brewing for weeks. He'd noticed {{user}} noticing him. {{user}}'s glances lingered a beat too long and he went still when Price stood near him in briefings. He was a patient man, but it was hard to be patient when he finally had the other man alone and in his hands.

"Alright," he said, stepping behind him. "One more drill. I want to see if you can hold your focus."

He reached around {{user}}, settling his hands on the other man's hips. The position was technically correct for a stance adjustment, with Price's chest against his back, his hands framing {{user}}'s pelvis, his mouth near his ear where he could hear the low purr of the captain's voice over the range's ventilation. Any innocent instructor might have done the same.

His fingers found the waistband of {{user}}'s pants. "You've been pulling left because you're tight here," he murmured, pressing his palm flat against his lower belly. He smirked at the double entendre known only to himself. "You need to relax into the shot. Let your body do the work."

He undid the button in a slow, deliberate pull. The sound of the zipper was lost under the hum of the air system. His hand slid inside {{user}}'s trousers. He found underwear under his fingers, plain and practical and warm from his skin. He traced the edge of the fabric with one finger, feeling the elastic give under his touch, then his thick fingers dipped lower.

His knuckles brushed the base of {{user}}'s cock, already half-hard and fattening up against his palm. He wrapped his hand around the shaft and hummed when he found it warm and thickening. He gave a slow, experimental stroke from base to head. The skin was soft and hot, the ridge of the glans catching against his calloused fingers. A bead of moisture slicked the tip and Price pressed his thumb into his slit.

"There we are," he said, his voice honey-smooth against the other man's ear. "That's better. Now let's see if you can still shoot."

He tightened his grip, just enough to make him feel it, and worked his hand down the shaft again. His thumb swept over the head, spreading the wetness, and he felt his hips twitch in an involuntary thrust into his fist. He smiled against the side of {{user}}'s head. "Easy. We're not done yet."

He set a slow rhythm, stroking him from base to tip, his other hand still stilling his hip. Price's mouth was at {{user}}'s ear now, close enough that his mustache brushed the shell of it. He could feel his breathing change, the other man's careful control starting to fray at the edges. His own cock was chubbing up against his hip.

"Focus on the target," he murmured. "Front sight. Breathe. Trigger squeeze. All the things I taught you. If you can put a round through the center while my hand's on your cock, you'll never miss again."

His grip tightened on the upstroke. "Now. Take the shot."

[AnyPOV - Ass]

The shooting range was empty except for the two of them, which was exactly how Price wanted it.

The official line he'd used when he booked the lane was "remedial instruction." {{user}} had been pulling left on their groupings for weeks, and Price had decided to sort it out personally instead of punting them to the armory staff. Nobody questioned a captain taking an interest in his people's marksmanship. It was one of the things he did well: hands-on mentoring, individual attention, and a sense that he cared about getting it right.

He did care; just not exclusively about the shooting.

They'd been at it for twenty minutes. The target at the far end of the lane had begun to show improvement in tighter clusters. {{user}} was a decent shot when they stopped overthinking. The problem was in their shoulders. They had a tendency to tense up before the trigger pull that threw the sight picture off by a fraction. He'd corrected their grip twice already, stepping close enough to adjust their fingers on the frame, smell whatever soap or shampoo they used, and selfishly feel the warmth of their body through his shirt.

The tension between them had been brewing for weeks. He'd noticed them noticing him. Their glances lingered a beat too long and they went still when he stood near them in briefings. He was a patient man, but it was hard to be patient when he finally had them alone and in his hands.

"Alright," he said, stepping behind them. "One more drill. I want to see if you can hold your focus."

He reached around them, settling his hands on their hips. The position was technically correct for a stance adjustment, with his chest against their back, his hands framing their pelvis, his mouth near their ear where they could hear the low purr of his voice over the range's ventilation. Any innocent instructor might have done the same.

His fingers found the waistband of their pants. "You've been pulling left because you're tight here," he murmured, pressing his palm flat against their lower belly. He smirked at the double entendre known only to himself. "You need to relax into the shot. Let your body do the work."

He undid the button in a slow, deliberate pull. The sound of the zipper was lost under the hum of the air system. His hand slid inside their trousers. He found underwear under his fingers, plain and practical and warm from their skin. Price pulled his hand out to pop his index finger between his lips and slick it up in his spit. He traced the edge of the fabric with one finger, feeling the elastic give under his touch, then his thick fingers dipped lower. He slid his hand around to their back.

His palm curved over the swell of their ass, squeezing once in an appreciative, proprietary grip before his fingers found their cleft and followed it downward. The skin was warm and close, the muscle tensing under his touch as he pressed deeper. His middle finger found the tight ring of their hole and circled it, light and deliberate, spreading a faint trace of sweat and his saliva.

"There we are," he said, his voice low and rough against their ear. "That's better. Now let's see if you can still shoot."

He pushed.

The tip of his finger breached them, and the tight heat of their body clenched around the intrusion. He worked deeper, a slow steady press, letting them feel his knuckle as it passed through the their pert little hole. His other hand stayed firm on their hip, holding them in place against his chest. He could feel their breathing go shallow, savoring the tremor that ran through their thighs when he crooked his finger inside them.

"Easy. We're not done yet."

He sank in to the second knuckle, then withdrew and pushed back in. Price fucked a slow, shallow rhythm that made the muscle flutter around his finger. His mouth was at their ear now, close enough that his moustache brushed the shell of it. He could feel their focus fracturing, the careful stance he'd spent twenty minutes drilling starting to waver.

"Focus on the target," he murmured. "Front sight. Breathe. Trigger squeeze. All the things I taught you. If you can put a round through the center while my finger's in your ass, you'll never miss again."

He pressed deeper.

"Now. Take the shot."

[FemPOV - Ass]

The shooting range was empty except for the two of them, which was exactly how Price wanted it.

The official line he'd used when he booked the lane was "remedial instruction." {{user}} had been pulling left on her groupings for weeks, and Price had decided to sort it out personally instead of punting her to the armory staff. Nobody questioned a captain taking an interest in his people's marksmanship. It was one of the things he did well: hands-on mentoring, individual attention, and a sense that he cared about getting it right.

He did care; just not exclusively about the shooting.

They'd been at it for twenty minutes. The target at the far end of the lane had begun to show improvement in tighter clusters. {{user}} was a decent shot when she stopped overthinking. The problem was in her shoulders. She had a tendency to tense up before the trigger pull that threw the sight picture off by a fraction. He'd corrected her grip twice already, stepping close enough to adjust her fingers on the frame, smell whatever soap or shampoo she used, and selfishly feel the warmth of her body through his shirt.

The tension between them had been brewing for weeks. He'd noticed her noticing him. Her glances lingered a beat too long and she went still when he stood near her in briefings. He was a patient man, but it was hard to be patient when he finally had her alone and in his hands.

"Alright," he said, stepping behind her. "One more drill. I want to see if you can hold your focus."

He reached around her, settling his hands on her hips. The position was technically correct for a stance adjustment, with his chest against her back, his hands framing her pelvis, his mouth near her ear where she could hear the low purr of his voice over the range's ventilation. Any innocent instructor might have done the same.

His fingers found the waistband of her pants. "You've been pulling left because you're tight here," he murmured, pressing his palm flat against her lower belly. He smirked at the double entendre known only to himself. "You need to relax into the shot. Let your body do the work."

He undid the button in a slow, deliberate pull. The sound of the zipper was lost under the hum of the air system. His hand slid inside their trousers. He found underwear under his fingers, plain and practical and warm from their skin. Price pulled his hand out to pop his index finger between his lips and slick it up in his spit. He traced the edge of the fabric with one finger, feeling the elastic give under his touch, then his thick fingers dipped lower. He slid his hand around to her back.

His palm curved over the swell of her ass, squeezing once in an appreciative, proprietary grip before his fingers found her cleft and followed it downward. The skin was warm and close, the muscle tensing under his touch as he pressed deeper. His middle finger found the tight ring of her asshole and circled it, light and deliberate, spreading a faint trace of sweat and his saliva.

"There we are," he said, his voice low and rough against her ear. "That's better. Now let's see if you can still shoot."

He pushed.

The tip of his finger breached her asshole, and the tight heat of her body clenched around the intrusion. He worked deeper, a slow steady press, letting her feel his knuckle as it passed through the her pert little hole. His other hand stayed firm on her hip, holding her in place against his chest. He could feel her breathing go shallow, savoring the tremor that ran through her thighs when he crooked his finger inside her.

"Easy. We're not done yet."

He sank in to the second knuckle, then withdrew and pushed back in. Price fucked a slow, shallow rhythm that made her muscle flutter around his finger. His mouth was at her ear now, close enough that his moustache brushed the shell of it. He could feel her focus fracturing, the careful stance he'd spent twenty minutes drilling starting to waver.

"Focus on the target," he murmured. "Front sight. Breathe. Trigger squeeze. All the things I taught you. If you can put a round through the center while my finger's in your ass, you'll never miss again."

He pressed deeper.

"Now. Take the shot."

[MascPOV - Ass]

The shooting range was empty except for the two of them, which was exactly how Price wanted it.

The official line he'd used when he booked the lane was "remedial instruction." {{user}} had been pulling left on his groupings for weeks, and Price had decided to sort it out personally instead of punting the other man to the armoury staff. Nobody questioned a captain taking an interest in his people's marksmanship. It was one of the things he did well: hands-on mentoring, individual attention, and a sense that he cared about getting it right.

He did care; just not exclusively about the shooting.

They'd been at it for twenty minutes. The target at the far end of the lane had begun to show improvement in tighter clusters. {{user}} was a decent shot when he stopped overthinking. The problem was in his shoulders. He had a tendency to tense up before the trigger pull that threw the sight picture off by a fraction. Price had corrected his grip twice already, stepping close enough to adjust his fingers on the frame, smell whatever soap or shampoo he used, and selfishly feel the warmth of his body through his shirt.

The tension between them had been brewing for weeks. He'd noticed {{user}} noticing him. {{user}}'s glances lingered a beat too long and he went still when Price stood near him in briefings. He was a patient man, but it was hard to be patient when he finally had the other man alone and in his hands.

"Alright," he said, stepping behind him. "One more drill. I want to see if you can hold your focus."

He reached around {{user}}, settling his hands on the other man's hips. The position was technically correct for a stance adjustment, with Price's chest against his back, his hands framing {{user}}'s pelvis, his mouth near his ear where he could hear the low purr of the captain's voice over the range's ventilation. Any innocent instructor might have done the same.

His fingers found the waistband of {{user}}'s pants. "You've been pulling left because you're tight here," he murmured, pressing his palm flat against his lower belly. He smirked at the double entendre known only to himself. "You need to relax into the shot. Let your body do the work."

He undid the button in a slow, deliberate pull. The sound of the zipper was lost under the hum of the air system. His hand slid inside {{user}}'s trousers. He found underwear under his fingers, plain and practical and warm from his skin. Price pulled his hand out to pop his index finger between his lips and slick it up in his spit. He traced the edge of the fabric with one finger, feeling the elastic give under his touch, then his thick fingers dipped lower. He slid his hand around to the other man's back.

His palm curved over the swell of {{user}}'s ass, squeezing once in an appreciative, proprietary grip before his fingers found his cleft and followed it downward. The skin was warm and close, the muscle tensing under his touch as he pressed deeper. His middle finger found the tight ring of his hole and circled it, light and deliberate, spreading a faint trace of sweat and his saliva.

"There we are," he said, his voice low and rough against {{user}}'s ear. "That's better. Now let's see if you can still shoot."

He pushed.

The tip of Price's finger breached him, and the tight heat of the other man's body clenched around the intrusion. Price worked deeper, a slow steady press, letting him feel his knuckle as it passed through the his pert little hole. His other hand stayed firm on {{user}}'s hip, holding him in place against the captain's chest. He could feel the other man's breathing go shallow, savoring the tremor that ran through his thighs when he crooked his finger inside him.

"Easy. We're not done yet."

He sank in to the second knuckle, then withdrew and pushed back in. Price fucked a slow, shallow rhythm that made the muscle flutter around his finger. His mouth was at {{user}}'s ear now, close enough that his moustache brushed the shell of it. He could feel {{user}}'s focus fracturing, the careful stance he'd spent twenty minutes drilling starting to waver.

"Focus on the target," he murmured. "Front sight. Breathe. Trigger squeeze. All the things I taught you. If you can put a round through the center while my finger's in your ass, you'll never miss again."

He pressed deeper.

"Now. Take the shot."