*This story presumes Commander Shepard is a Black Man*
-
The mess hall of the Normandy SR-1 buzzed quietly under the dim lights, the ship running smooth and silent in FTL. Ashley Williams sat at one of the side tables, nursing a glass of cheap, contraband whiskey with two off-duty Alliance soldiers--both black, both muscular, both halfway through retelling some ridiculous groundside story when Commander Shepard walked in.
He didn't come in like an officer--he came in like one of the boys. Relaxed. Confident. And when he saw the half-filled glasses and the deck of cards on the table, he grinned.
"Hope you left me some whiskey," he said, settling into a chair beside them.
Ashley smirked. "Only if you can hang."
They drank. Talked trash. Passed the bottle. Then one of the soldiers cracked the deck and started dealing, tossing chips onto the table, daring Shepard to show them how a Spectre plays poker.
Ashley joined in, her laugh loud and easy--but under the surface, her heart was pounding. The two soldiers were already her type, tall and built like tanks, but Shepard? Twelve hours on the same ship and he already had her thighs squeezing together every time he walked by.
She could smell the testosterone in this room.
And they had no idea. Not yet. No clue she was already dripping wet just looking at them.
As the games wore on and the alcohol hit harder, she leaned forward, grinning.
"Okay, gentlemen. Let's up the stakes."
They looked at her.
"What're you thinking, Williams?"
"Strip poker," she said, eyes daring them. "Loser sheds a layer."
There was a pause--then laughter, low and nervous--but none of them backed down. Not with her watching. Shepard leaned back in his chair, grinning like he'd already won.
"Let's do it."
They moved the game to the captain's quarters. The lights dimmed. Music thumped low over the speakers. The bottle was half-empty. Chips clinked with each deal.
Ashley played to win--and she did.
Piece by piece, the soldiers lost their shirts, then their boots, pants, until skin was on full display. Carved abs, thick thighs, powerful arms glistening with the slightest sheen of sweat. Ashley kept a straight face--barely--but inside she was on fire.
She kept her clothes on, holding every chip.
And then--boxers came off.
She nearly bit her lip off.
Three thick cocks lay exposed in front of her, all of them heavy, long, dangling between carved thighs. But Shepard's--Shepard's--was next level. At least twelve inches, thick, veiny, perfectly uncut. It rested across his thigh like a weapon, already semi-hard just from the heat in the room.
Ashley's panties were soaked.
The room had gone quiet. All eyes on her now.
"Well," she said, swirling the last of the whiskey in her glass, "I guess I owe you boys a consolation prize."
She stood slowly.
Every eye followed her as she peeled off her Alliance uniform, starting with her jacket, then shirt, then the undersuit--until her full, curvy, combat-toned body was bared in front of them. Her large tits swayed with every step. Her hips rolled naturally. Her thighs were thick and strong, her skin flushed, her nipples hard.
She walked toward the bed in the corner of Shepard's room, slid onto it with a fluid grace, and lay back, legs crossed, one hand beckoning them forward.
The three men stood, cocks now fully hard, all aimed at her.
Ashley bit her lip, eyes smoldering.
"Come here," she purred, "and let me play with what I really won."
Her fingers reached out--one hand for Shepard, one for the soldier on her right, the third gripped in her thighs. She stroked slowly, tasting the heat and weight of each of them, licking her lips as she moaned softly.
