Active Duty: Gay Military Erotic Romance (24 page)

I coughed and blinked. “You, um, you can’t say stuff like that anymore, Sergeant.” My belly suddenly tied up in knots, strong enough to dock a tanker with.

But he merely chuckled. “I can’t, huh?” he said, towel moving to his tree-trunk-thick legs, balls the size of lemons dangling down, calves flexed, big as boulders. “You got any witnesses says I did such a thing?”

Now he had me pissed. Fucker. And with all that built-up adrenaline from the previous week boiling up, I strode the few feet that separated us, standing eye to eye with him all of a sudden. Or at least eye to chin. “I don’t need any, Sergeant,” I told him, voice about as steady as I could make it. “The Army says you can’t call me that no more.”

He dropped the towel and poked me in the chest. “Queer-ass,” he repeated, steely eyes mere slits. “Queer-fucking-ass.”

Well now, wouldn’t you know it, but that adrenaline of mine bubbled the fuck on over at that one. Meaning, I punched him one in the chest. Hard, too. Or at least hard for me. Though it probably hurt my hand way more than his stupendously solid chest. “Don’t call me that,” I managed, dropping the
Sergeant
bit altogether.

He paused and stared down at the red that had managed its way across his chest, right where I’d socked him. Then, surprisingly, he smiled, teeth white and as straight as he was. “Queer-ass has some guts after all, huh?”

Again my fist went up and again it met flesh, and then again, sending him back an inch or two, both of us in shock at my seething outburst. Me especially, seeing as I could’ve sworn I heard him moan a bit at the second wallop, eyelids fluttering for the briefest of moments. “Stop it,” I managed, panting now, legs suddenly shaky, throat dry.

“Or what?” he asked, again moving forward, chest out, eyes wide. “You’ll tell mommy on me?” This time I backslapped his tummy, my hand going in the reverse direction on his dick. And I didn’t imagine the moan or the eyelid flutter this time. Nope. Mainly because his dick swung and then kept right on swinging, arcing right before curving up, up and up some more. Sucker was a battering ram with only me in its path. Instinctively, I went to grab it, old habits dying hard, but he swatted my hand away. “Keep your queer mitts off of me, Private.”

I retracted my hand, but still stayed firmly in place. “Says the man with the newfound kickstand.” And to send the point home, I thwacked it again, sending it reeling, a mild breeze rising in its hefty wake.

Again he moaned, and said in reply, “Back to bed, Malone.” Though it came out kind of weak, if you ask me.

This time I lifted both fists and punched both his pecs, the
sound pinging in all directions, echoing off the tiled walls. “Not.”
Pound
. “Tired.”
Pound
. “Sergeant.” And then I grabbed his eraser-tipped nipples and gave a hard tug and a ferocious tweak, which sent the mighty giant to his knees, the loudest moan yet escaping from between his lips, the sound swirling around us like a whipped-up cyclone.

He stared up at me, eyes again wide, hand suddenly yanking on his billy club of a prick, his free hand pointing at my fiercely tenting boxer shorts, which was all I was wearing at the time. “Lock the door, Private,” he commanded, voice thick as molasses, those few words far greater than the sum of their parts.

I moved a couple of feet in reverse and slid out of my boxers, cock springing to life. “No witnesses, huh, Sergeant?”

“See,” he said, still stroking his dick as he tossed in a wink for good measure. “You’re not as stupid as you look, Private.”

It was a backhanded compliment that earned him yet another backhand across his chest before I did as he’d said, turning to the door, which I locked up good and tight. When I turned around again, he was on all fours, butt facing my way, legs wide, balls low and bouncing as he jacked away. “And you are as big an
ass
as you look,” I replied. “Sergeant.” Which I meant quite literally, seeing as his solidly huge ass was beautifully beckoning me toward it.

I again closed the gap between us, sitting cross-legged directly behind him, praying to the altar, as it were. And my tithing was a hard smack across his buttcheek, then another, both yielding moans in praise, his hand picking up speed on his dick, which I figured needed some attention on my part, too. So I grabbed his balls and gave a sharp tug up. He yelped, shuddered and released his pole, which was now pointing down to the tile below, translucent precome dripping off the mushroom-wide head. I pulled harder on his nut sac, and the shudder
repeated, rolling over his entire body like waves at the shoreline.

“Slap it, Private,” he grunted, turning his thick neck my way.

Well, seeing as he wasn’t specific, I slapped it all: left cheek, right cheek, hole and balls and dick, repeatedly, until everything was beet red, with a little cayenne thrown in for flavor.

By then, I was drenched with sweat and my cock was so thick in my grip that I thought it would explode at any moment. Still, I wasn’t done with him. Three years of anger needed to come out. On him. Three years with interest, no less, and at a rate the banks would’ve killed for.

“Roll over, Sergeant,” I then told him. He didn’t reply or move, just remained there, jacking merrily away. “Or the party’s over.”

He sighed and grunted, clearly not accustomed to being told what to do, at least by the likes of me. Still, he relented, little head clearly in charge of the big head. Not that either were all that little, mind you. In any case, down he went to the floor, then over, body splayed out, eyes on me and mine on him. A buffet of flesh, meat and potatoes for days. “Well, Private?” he said, cock in hand again, a slow stroke beginning as he waited for the next onslaught.

I grinned and spanked his chest, harder, harder, hardest. “Feet up and hold ’em up.”

“Sergeant,” he cautioned.

I shrugged. “Fine, feet up and hold ’em up,
Sergeant
.”

He nodded and complied, his feet lifted above his midsection, knees wide, hands holding them there. I was now on the ground at his side, one hand stroking my rigid prick, the other spanking his hairy exposed hole, over and over again, each time eliciting a grunt or a groan, a gasp or a sigh. “More,” he managed, eyes shut tight, mouth in a determined snarl, fist moving like lightning on his club of a cock.

So more is what he got, my palm spanking away as I leaned down, face to face until I could smell the soap he’d just scrubbed with. “You like that asshole slapped by my queer hand, Sergeant? Like jacking off for your queer-ass Private?” He didn’t reply; didn’t need to really. The questions were, after all, rhetorical. And, I assumed, the answers were both yes and no. Not that I cared, because I, in fact, was having a grand old time of it. “Cat got your tongue, Sergeant?” I added, lifting my slapping hand to my mouth and hawking on it. Then I returned it to its target, a slow, steady glide of my slicked-up digits deep, deep inside of him. “Faggot got your ass, Sergeant?”

His back arched, his head was thrown back, and his body rumbled and shook as he loudly moaned out, “
Fuuuck
.”

Which is just what I did, pumping my double digits, soon triple, in and out, in and out, deep as I could go, rough as I could go, fast as I could go, until he was so wet with sweat himself that he was practically sliding on the tile now, still working his cock as I assaulted his tight-as-a-drum hole. “The Sergeant is a bottom,” I chided. “Who would have guessed?”

He stopped pumping his prick and looked my way, the sneer once again evident on his sweat-soaked face. “Straight guys have prostates too, Private. Don’t need to be queer to work it a little.”

I shrugged and pushed in deeper, that prostate he mentioned getting ever harder beneath my constant prodding and pumping. “If you say so, Sergeant.” Then I pulled out, a new twisted thought worming its way inside my head, one clearly more purposeful. “But maybe we can get us closer to the real deal than a few little fingers.”

With his free hand, he punched my thigh, which hurt like a motherfucker. “No cocks up my ass, queer boy.”

I jumped up and waved said cock, glorious as it was, down at
him. “Your loss, Sergeant, but I had another idea in that regard.” Actually, I had more than one, but it was only the one he got, for the time being. And with us already in the latrine, I had a perfect steely prick substitute for him. Emphasis on the steely.

Seconds later, I returned with a toilet-paper holder from one of the stalls. Six inches and hard, it would do in a pinch. And that it did, lubed with hand soap, and sliding forcibly up his rump. “Mmm,” he sighed as I slid it on home. “Mmm,” he moaned again as I turned it clockwise inside of him.

“Now, Sergeant, go fuck yourself,” I told him, with a chuckle, jumping up as the metal tube hung there, suspended half in, half out of his hole. Needless to say, he picked up where I’d left off, fucking himself and jacking away, body writhing on the floor while I sat off to the side of him again, plucking his nipples like a harp, my cock in my hand, watching, waiting, biding my time.

“Close,” he soon enough rasped, panting, eyes squinting, sweat pooling on the floor.

“Wait!” I shouted, then caught myself. “I mean, one more thing, Sergeant. Because, come on, that thing up your ass is puny; you probably can’t even feel it. Let me go get something even better. I promise you’ll get a bigger, um,
kick
out of it.” Or at least one of us would.

He stopped his jacking, thick prick standing at attention. Fuck, I almost saluted the damned thing. He eyed me suspiciously, but nodded just the same. “No cocks, queer-ass,” he spat, wiping a river of perspiration off his face as he continued fucking himself, his pace slowing down just a bit for now.

“No cocks, Sergeant,” I promised, hopping up as I quickly slid my boxers back on. “Be right back. Then it’s coming time.” Or at least comeuppance.

“Hurry, Malone,” he grunted, swollen stiffie again in hand as he watched me unlock the latch and rush outside.

I smiled as I shut the door behind me, waiting for my prick to go semi again. “Oh, I’ll hurry, Sergeant,” I whispered, head turning from side to side as I sought out my opportunity. “I mean, I’ve been waiting three long years for this, don’t want to wait another minute longer.”

Thankfully, less than a minute was all I needed, too. I mean, the military police are pretty easy to find, and they act rather quickly when you tell them you heard weird noises coming from the latrine. Oh, and perhaps added a little fib about seeing someone who looked sort of smarmy milling about. Maybe in some sort of foreign garb.

In other words, they took off running, rifles at the ready, me about twenty feet behind, not wanting to miss a moment of the festivities.

I had a ringside seat, too. Off to the side of the latrine was the ventilation unit; I just had to hop up and gaze in. And, man, what a sight it was to see, especially with my cock pulled out of my boxers, finally ready for some much-needed release. It and me both.

The MPs rushed in, guns extended, fingers at the ready. They didn’t find no suspicious foreigner either, just a naked, hard, jerking sergeant with a toilet paper holder jammed deep up his ass. Sucker went flying out like a newly lit rocket as he jumped up, cock swaying, looking much like a deer caught in the headlights, or a scared jackrabbit, minus the jacking, which he was officially done with right about then.

Suffice it say, that image of him standing there, defenseless, naked, hard and dripping with sweat, now of the flop variety; that was all I needed. My knees buckled some then, I tossed my head back, and a rumble went up from my lungs and out from between my lips. The moan carried on the sticky night air as I spewed and spewed and spewed some more, thick wads
of white spunk hitting the equally white cement before sliding down, every nerve ending in my body shooting off Fourth of July fireworks.

“Guess you got your witnesses after all, Sergeant,” I panted as I stuffed my prick back inside my boxers and hopped down before returning to my waiting cot, which, strangely enough, was just about the most comfortable bed I’d ever slept in all of a sudden. See, Army Boot Camp might’ve been 2.0, but it was now A-Number-One with me.

THE RAINBOW KERCHIEF AND THE FULL MOON

Jay Starre

R
icardo Sanchez grinned. He had an extremely accurate gaydar and he’d pegged the tall redheaded Sergeant Worth for a gay dude the moment he laid eyes on him. It had taken a lot of hinting around on Ricardo’s part, telling the officer all kinds of intimate stuff without any real reaction, until just that morning his assumption was corroborated.

The platoon was dispatched to the California foothills for seven days of training maneuvers, housed in rudimentary tent barracks still hot from a late September heat wave. They were racing through an obstacle course of fences and ditches under an unusually hot autumn sun when a small group of them reached a towering wall covered with netting. A few moments of scuffling and milling around ensued as they jockeyed for turns at scaling the formidable obstacle. Ricardo turned to notice Sergeant Worth watching from the sidelines.

The sergeant held a kerchief, which he was swiping across his forehead to wipe away the sweat from the midday sun. For
a moment, Ricardo just stared. The drill instructor was handsome as hell. He had pale-red eyebrows above pale-blue eyes and although his face was broad, his features were almost delicate, which made him look much younger than his nearly forty years. He wasn’t given to smiling a heck of a lot, but he rarely frowned either. In fact, he always looked cool and collected. Nothing seemed to shake his equanimity.