Active Duty: Gay Military Erotic Romance (20 page)

Scott called when he returned from his trip, leaving a message on my cell phone that I didn’t answer, and he called again a few days later. I was able to avoid him for nearly a month by not responding to his calls and not leaving the base, but a return visit to the country club at the insistence of my commanding officer threw us together again.

“Captain Hunter,” Scott said, as he thrust his hand out to clasp mine. “It’s so nice to see you again. I’m surprised you were able to get away from base.”

I melted inside. “I’ve been busy,” I said, “but it looks like I’ll have free time this weekend.”

Before we could say any more, we were interrupted by one of the matronly women I’d met during my previous visit to the country club. This time she’d brought her daughter and she insisted on introducing us.

Scott flashed me a wicked little grin and left me to fend for
myself. When I phoned later that evening, he asked if the woman had already set a wedding date for her daughter and me. I let Scott take his shot—I deserved it for the way I’d avoided him since returning from Dallas—before we began our real conversation.

We had a lot to work out, and it took more than one conversation to do it, but we soon realized we both wanted what neither of us had ever had: a relationship. And we both knew that circumstances prevented us from having a normal one. Unlike during our visit to the Oak Lawn neighborhood in Dallas, we could never hold hands in town, could never kiss in public as we had seen same-sex couples doing and could never do anything that might circumvent the purpose of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

We were careful, almost too careful, not sharing the same bed again until a trip to Key West three months after we met. We were so cautious and surreptitious that the announcement of our engagement a few weeks after the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell caught by surprise everyone we knew.

My best man, a fellow pilot who had been less surprised by my coming out than I had expected, knocked on the door and poked his head in. “It’s time.”

I took one last look in the mirror and followed him to the staging area. Rather than either of us walking down the aisle, Scott and I approached the altar from either side and met in the middle. We stood before a church filled with family and friends as we professed our undying love, attended a simple reception following the ceremony and then drove to a hotel in the Dallas neighborhood of Oak Lawn to begin our life as a married couple.

The door of the honeymoon suite had barely closed behind the bellman when I pulled Scott into my arms and kissed him
long and hard. Over the course of our developing relationship, we had kissed many times, but never like this, never as a married couple.

When the kiss ended, Scott took my hand, grabbed one of the small bags the bellman had piled just inside the door and led me into the bedroom. As I removed my uniform and hung it in the closet, Scott unpacked the bag and stripped off his suit. Wearing only my boxers, I turned my attention to the bed, where my new spouse awaited me beneath the covers. I kicked off my boxers and joined him there.

I braced myself on one elbow and gazed down into his eyes.

“I never thought this day would come,” I said, as I stroked his cheek. A faint hint of five o’clock shadow sandpapered my thumb. “I never thought I could have a family
and
a military career.”

I covered Scott’s lips with mine before he could respond, and our kiss was longer and deeper than the one we’d shared when we’d first entered the honeymoon suite. I stroked his hair, ran my fingers down the length of his arm and cupped one asscheek in my palm, exploring his body almost as if it were our first time together.

Scott slipped a hand between us and wrapped his fist around my rising cock, gripping it like a joystick as he thumbed the tiny slit and smeared precum over the spongy-soft head.

Then he pushed aside the covers and kissed his way down my chest, over my taut abdomen to the neatly trimmed nest of hair at my crotch. My new spouse readjusted his position until he knelt between my widespread thighs and his warm breath tickled the head of my cock just before he wrapped his lips around it. As he pistoned his fist up and down the stiff shaft, he covered my cockhead with saliva, painting it with his tongue.

He slid his fist to the base of my cock and then took more
of my length into his mouth. From past experience I knew the entire length was more than he could handle but that didn’t stop him from trying.

As he drew his head back, saliva escaped and slid down the length of my shaft to dampen the thatch of hair at my crotch and tickle my ball sac. He cupped my balls with his free hand and kneaded my nuts. When his teeth caught on the ridge of my swollen glans, he reversed direction. He stopped kneading my nuts and tickled the sensitive spot behind my nut sac, his finger sliding backward until it pressed against the tight pucker of my sphincter.

He moved his head up and down, faster and faster, pressing ever more firmly against my sphincter with his unlubed finger.

I couldn’t restrain myself and soon my hips were bucking up and down on the bed. I wrapped my fingers in Scott’s hair and thrust upward to meet his face each time it descended.

Then, just as I was about to cum, my ass relaxed and Scott’s finger slid into me and pressed against my prostate. I came and came hard, once again propelling a thick wad of hot spunk against the back of Scott’s throat.

He swallowed every drop before he released my cock and slid up the bed into my arms. I’m not usually quick to rebound, but this was our wedding night and soon my cock rose again.

Scott had unpacked the lube while I had been undressing and it was on the nightstand. After I slathered some on my reenergized cock, I squeezed a glob on my middle fingers and slid my hands between his thighs and under his ball sac. I massaged his sphincter until I could slip one finger into Scott’s ass, and I continued massaging it until I could slip in a second finger.

When I knew he was ready, I removed my fingers and rolled on top of my new spouse. I pulled his knees up until he could hook his legs over my shoulders. Then, with his erect cock
trapped between us, I drove my cock into his well-lubed ass and stared into his eyes as I made love to him.

As I slowly pistoned my cock in and out of Scott’s ass, my abdomen rubbed the underside of his erect cock. Our sex started slow and easy but soon grew hard and fast.

My new spouse came first, covering my abdomen and his with sticky cum. Then I came, sending my second wad of hot spunk deep inside him. I collapsed atop him and didn’t move until I’d caught my breath and my softening cock finally slipped free.

After we lay together for a bit, Scott said, “I’m hungry but I don’t think I want to leave the bed any time soon.”

“I can take care of that,” I told him. I reached for the room service menu and we examined it together. A moment later I rolled over, reached for the phone and dialed room service. As soon as the call was answered, I said, “My husband and I would like—”

I hesitated, unexpectedly choked up. Scott and I had been married less than a day, but it was the first time I had ever referred to him as my husband. I looked over at Scott—at my husband—and felt as if I was soaring higher than I’d ever soared before without ever leaving the ground.

“Sir?” asked the voice on the other end of the line.

I kissed Scott and then completed placing our order.

My husband and I had a glorious future ahead of us.

CANDY MAN

Gregory L. Norris

T
wenty kilometers from the Pakistan border, northwest of the Khyber Pass, northeast of the bombed-out remains of Tora Bora, Firebase Phoenix, one of the most hard-fought areas in Afghanistan, seemed at the farthest end of the universe.

Inside the fortified living quarters, Weare turned the corner and continued forward toward the room at the end of the corridor that would be home for the duration of this tour. A lone figure exited the room and approached. Weare froze where he stood.

The man was older now, with silver showing in the neat buzz of his dark hair, especially above both ears. “You,” he said around the lollypop stick hanging at a lazy angle from one corner of his mouth.

The lone word roused Weare from the spell of thoughts he’d fallen under, and vanquished years of regret. Heat raced through his blood, and his body woke from a long sleep. Red rose on his throat and cheeks. His cock stirred in his BDUs and
threw itself against his underwear and button-fly. For the first time in days—maybe months—Weare smiled.

“Yeah,” he said.

What passed next between them did so through a kind of telepathy. Without warning or preparation, Weare spiraled back through time and was there again, in that brief but wonderful chapter of his secret past.

PFC Jeremy Weare made a promise to himself during the tense flight from Germany: he would hold on to the best memories, the best smells and tastes from home, once they hit the sand. He didn’t have a lot to draw upon; his personal highlight reel, at twenty-four, wasn’t jam-packed with a life’s worth of
kapow
moments. But he hoped what he brought with him in spirit would be enough.

Everything was different over there, and no amount of bullshitting or briefing prepared him for exactly how vast the shift went from familiar to foreign. Weare told himself that the turkey and mashed potatoes served in the mess hall really were like the best Thanksgiving meals from that other time and place,
B.I
.—Before Iraq. And that the fake tree with the cheap paper decorations and twinkling lights represented a real holiday. But at night, when Weare slept, if he slept, his mind drifted back to rural Maine, and, sometimes, he caught a phantom hint of sap pine before waking in a strange land where nothing made sense, a million miles from home.

Secretly, he played a private game when not dodging bullets or roadside explosives. For every new, terrible memory being indelibly recorded, he called up a better one and accentuated the positive. Weare didn’t want to be here in the heat, the filth, or the increasingly hostile climate, but he convinced himself he did, else he wouldn’t have signed up to make the world safer when
one of his buddies was taking a full ride on a football scholarship and another, Donald, was working his family’s farm, likely spending long days sawing down Christmas trees that smelled of the holiday, sweet and alive.

One shower a week, if that. He looked at the time between as a way to conserve the bar of soap he’d brought with him from Maine—green, a real man’s brand according to the commercials. With his back to the rest of the men, Weare soaped up his balls, lathered his cock and jerked himself almost to completion, knowing his fellow warriors were engaged in a similar ritual, satisfying a required need destined to be repeated in the barracks after lights out. Maybe they, too, thought of pumpkin pie and cinnamon as a way to stay strong; peppermint candy canes, and turkey stuffing that was moist and savory, not tasteless and hard enough to shoot out of a tank’s boom stick.

He was showering, fantasizing of chocolate-covered cherries and the best sex of his young life, a few pumps shy of blasting his seed down the drain, where it would join the loads of so many other American infidels, eventually making it into the desert’s water table, when the scuffle of slides drew Weare’s gaze toward his right. The stall space beside him was no longer empty. Another male body, naked save the slides, ambled up to the nozzle, turned on the water and ducked into its rare, cleansing spray. Around the scent of his soap, Weare detected a man’s sweat—that mix of the fresh and athletic along with the ripe from balls and feet, armpits and asshole. And something else. Something
sweet
.

That was Weare’s first encounter with the new lieutenant, Christopher Collins.

He unconsciously drew a deep breath. Cherry? Taking a bold glance up, Weare noticed the lollypop stick hanging out of the other man’s unshaved mouth. Dude smelled like home.

* * *

Collins joined him at the table in the mess, and introductions were made. Freshly scrubbed and smelling the way manly Irish men were expected to, Weare picked at the pasta and meat sauce, moving the food around with his fork more than actually eating it. Pretending this slop was as good as the spaghetti and meatball dinners on cold, snowy nights in Maine almost worked—until he caught Collins staring, and Weare gazed up, connecting with the other man in a way that was both thrilling and devastating at the same time.

“Thanks for the loan of your soap in there. So, where you from?” Collins asked, his voice a deep, charming drawl from some point on the map between the Blue Ridge Mountains and the bayou.

Weare told him. “Not much there but pinecones and rocks.”

He didn’t mention that he was narrowly ahead of a tidal wave of misery over missing the world he knew while following his marching orders in this alien realm. He sensed he didn’t need to, because Collins got it.

“Hey, L-T, you gonna eat your pasta or jerk off into it,” one of the guys at the table joked, his mouth full of food.

“Already beat off—into yours, Thomas,” Collins fired back.

Thomas expelled a mouthful of his meal to a cacophony of good-natured chuckles. In that one sentence, Collins did more to lighten the general mood than anything Weare had managed on his own. He liked this dude, who’d caught him looking in the shower and had asked to borrow his soap. Oh yeah. A lot.