Active Duty: Gay Military Erotic Romance (5 page)

The on-base USO is a refuge to troops in need of a place to defecate and masturbate without an audience. Ours had a latrine that boasted six stalls and a gay facilitator who organized bingo games, family visits, emergency leaves, Scrabble competitions and, so I learned, gang bangs. His name was Ralph. He was about fifty, slim, with graying hair, and from the outline of the long pecker in his chinos I would say he dressed to the left.

Ralph and I recognized each other as soul mates from the time of my first visit to the USO facility. Knowing I didn’t play
bingo or Scrabble he asked me if I had come for a game of pool, the question spoken with a nod toward the sergeant who was at the pool table, playing solo. I shook my head, hefted the bulge in my crotch and headed for the latrine. “Take the last stall,” Ralph advised me as I went for the much pent-up release.

I took the last stall because I had learned to follow orders as befits a lowly PFC, and I didn’t bolt the door because I suspected Ralph had it in mind to peek in or perhaps join me for a community wank. I dropped my pants and shorts, and sat and fisted my cock, which was already stiff with anticipation. I gave my balls a playful rub and drew precum after two strokes. Then the door opened a crack and a head appeared. It wasn’t Ralph. It was the sergeant.

“I’m looking to get sucked off,” he announced.

“Well, Sergeant, you’ve come to the right place.”

He came in, closed the door and dropped his pants and jockeys. His prick was semi-hard, thick and displayed a helmet-shaped head with a drop of man juice at the piss-slit. His man bush was abundant and ran up his heaving belly. His balls were huge low hangers which I cupped as he shoved his cock toward my lips. “Kiss it, pal.”

I tongued the piss-slit and got a mixture of salty cum and the unmistakable taste of man piss. He must have taken a leak before coming to the stall. I was so hot my own cum juice was flowing like water from a leaky faucet. The sergeant put his hand on my head and pushed me onto his cock. I lapped up the big head like a kid with a lollypop, the ones we called all-day suckers. I began to caress his prick with my lips and tongue. Holding my head he fucked my face with slow, circular motions, aiming for my tonsils. It had been a long time since I’d had a taste of cock, and I was lapping it up like a starved puppy.

I put my arms around my sergeant to grasp his ass and—holy
shit, I was touching not ass but skin in need of a shave. It was Ralph, who had squeezed into our stall and was licking the sergeant’s ass. From the moans the sarge was sighing I figured Ralph was giving him an in-depth rim job.

“I’m the meat of the sandwich,” the sergeant quipped as he shoved his cock in my mouth and his A-hole onto Ralph’s tongue. The happy noncom was wiggling as best he could in our tight quarters. “Okay, men, let’s share the goodies.” With that the sarge disengaged his sucker and licker, then turned around as best he could with his pants and jockeys around his ankles until I faced his ass and Ralph got the prick with the helmet head and low hangers.

I went right to work. Ralph had licked the sarge clean but I continued to polish the apple, so to speak. I reached between the sergeant’s legs and tickled his balls and Ralph’s chin. Then I dipped a finger in my abundant precum and shoved it up the sergeant’s back door. He jumped which must have rammed his cock down Ralph’s throat. “You fucking me?” he yelled.

“Just a finger-fuck, Sarge.”

“Had a major that liked to finger-fuck me. Got so loose he could put two fingers up my poop hole.”

“Did he lick his fingers?” I wanted to know.

“Fuck, no. He made me lick them. Rank has its privileges.”

The sergeant backed into me (remember, I was sitting on the toilet to give Ralph room to stand up.) “He’s putting a raincoat on me,” the sarge informed me. (A raincoat, for you civilian readers, is a condom and if dicky has a hood always skin it back before putting on his raincoat; the army’s complimentary condoms came with these instructions.)

Ralph turned and pressed his face against the closed door, giving sarge clear access to Ralph’s poop tube, a territory the sarge seemed to know very well because he buckled his knees a
few inches, aimed his helmeted soldier at the mark and entered the fort without a moment’s hesitation. Ralph moaned, the sergeant moaned and I tongued the sarge as the sarge fucked the USO facilitator. We were a fucking team. (Excuse the pun.)

Sarge was the first to drop his load, and his moans and spasmodic shivers told his mates it was a rapture supreme. I was next, spraying the sarge’s ass with my man cum. My rapture had me licking my cum and tonguing it up Sarge’s bumhole. Ralph brought himself off with his fist, rendering the stall aromatic with the scent of jism and man sweat. Exhausted, we untangled ourselves slowly, like sardines vying for fin room.

The sarge’s condom hung low with his load of thick, white boy juice. The ever-helpful facilitator bent to inch it off Sarge’s cock,
with his lips
. I caught a glimpse of Ralph’s cock; uncut with the foreskin not able to completely clear the cockhead. A tasty delight for many a discriminating gourmand.

Ralph peeped out to make sure there was no one about to see him coming out of the stall. He told us he would return with a wet towel, of which we were in much need. With our pants and shorts still around our ankles, Sarge and I took a warm piss pas de deux. Sarge fingered my butt and got in a few inches as we made water. “I want to fuck you next time,” he told me.

“Would you kiss me first?” I asked.

He shook the last drops of piss off his dick and said. “Kiss this, buddy.”

Was he asking me or telling me?

We went to the rifle range for target practice once a week. How we got there is significant to my tale of sex in the new Army, which was not flagrant but certainly performed with more joie de vivre than in the days of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, when everyone asked and no one told.

The motor pool, staffed by men with much brawn and big baskets, provided the transportation, a covered wagon with a row of benches flanking a wood flatbed and attached to a cab. We troops were ushered in over the tailgate like biped cattle going to the slaughter. The first men in filled the benches from rear to front. The following men had to stand, filling the space between the benches from rear to front.

The first man in, of course, got the first bench seat in the rear of the wagon. This was Bobby Benson, the company clerk. Company clerks are exempt from all physical basic training, except rifle practice, a perk of being a computer wiz. The army that used to travel on its stomach now travels via the computer.

I was the first standee to jump the tailgate and head for the rear of the wagon. Hence, I stood before the seated clerk whose khakis stretched over a teasing crotch and spread legs. Bobby looked like he had graduated from high school the day before and even had a zit or two on his chin to prove it. Tall, slim and “cute” was our company clerk. The wagon was filling up like a New York subway car at rush hour, all passengers toting a rifle. I was pushed over Bobby until my crotch was flush with his dewy lips. He tugged on my belt and pulled me down until I was seated on his lap. “Better on my knee than in my mouth,” he said.

“Thanks,” I answered, pressing my hip into a package I would love to open Christmas morning.

The cab lurched forward and its cargo heaved backward. Bobby clung to my belt, his thumb rubbing the elastic band of my shorts. Was he telling me something? I tested the water by giving his basket a few more hip rubs. He squeezed my waist, a finger now inside the band of my jockeys. Was this really happening? I was surrounded by fifty guys, all armed, in a fucking convoy.

Bobby’s fingers pulled up my khaki shirt so that he could get them inside my shorts, inches above my ass. My cock grew to its full height: seven inches, give or take a few centimeters. My hip told me Bobby’s prick was also standing at attention.

I lost my head and tugged at his fly zipper. He kept his and stopped me.

“After chow, in my office.”

I squeezed his dick. He caressed my undershorts. Love, army style.

I asked Sergeant Baker for permission to speak to the company clerk on personal business. (Ha-ha.) I said I would rather do this on my own time than take time off from my training. Sergeant Baker liked that. A little brown nosing never hurt and how I would love to brown nose Sergeant Baker’s back door.

Headquarters was a glorified shack across from the barracks that housed the noncoms, including my Sergeant Baker. Bobby bunked in a room behind the office, using the barracks facilities to shit, shower and shave. Nice digs, and all because he was computer literate. The captain and staff sergeant were long gone. Bobby was waiting for me dressed in fatigues that bloused over his boots, like a combat hero between wars. His shirt was open to reveal his dog tags hanging atop a hairless chest. He was rubbing his dick and showed me the rigid bulge that ran down his inner thigh. I rubbed my crotch to let him know I was just as horny and eager to suck or fuck or anything else he may have had in mind.

He looked like forbidden fruit (i.e., underage) so I took him in my arms and began by kissing him full on those tender lips. Our tongues entwined as we indulged in a Princeton Rub, cock to cock. Inserting his hand between us, Bobby began to feel my cock. I immediately extended him the same courtesy.

I stuck my tongue deep down his throat. He tasted of chewing tobacco and smelled of cheap aftershave, both of which made my hard cock begin to seep cum cream.

“Be nice to me and you’ll never pull KP or any shit detail again.”

“What do I have to do to be nice?” I asked, hoping for the best.

“Suck my prick.”

I went to my knees, feeling I was getting the better part of the deal. The zipper that had eluded me that afternoon now yielded to my touch. I reached in, inhaling the erotic aroma of ball sweat, and took out his prick. I refrained from whistling at the sight and settled for licking my lips. I wasn’t going to get my first taste of foreskin, but I was going to lavish my mouth over a redheaded lady-pleaser with a slight upward curve and leaking a fine sliver of Bobby-boy’s cum juice. I cleared the clogged pisshole with my tongue, causing Bobby to order me: “Eat my joy juice. Eat my fucking joy juice.”

Joy juice? Before my Army days came to an end I would compose a lexicon of poetic names for semen. I sucked, my lips caressing the rigid flesh, grazing over the big red head and the telltale ring of his circumcision. He began to fuck my face, which I encouraged by wrapping my arms around his ass, kneading the flesh and looking to gain entrance to the crack and find his tender hole.

My stud was hopping on one foot and salivating. Fearing he would release his joy juice too soon I eased his prick out of my mouth, held it in my hand, inspected it at close range, rubbed the head under my nose, masturbated the firm shaft and tongued the tiny opening.

Reaching into the fly, I pulled out his balls. A generous handful. “Take ’em in your mouth,” Bobby ordered.

Opening wide, I got one nut in and sucked on it. With his fingers, Bobby eased the twin nuts between my lips. I lapped the mouthful of scrotum while Bobby rubbed his cock between his belly and my forehead. “Warm up the cream,” he laughed. “You like it nice and hot, right?” I gave his balls a reassuring suck to let him know that was how I liked it.

I savored the man sac for as long as I could take it but the need to breathe forced me to give up my prize. The void was quickly filled by Bobby’s cock, which he guided between my lips. “I’m near,” he panted, fucking my face with long strokes, withdrawing completely before shoving it back down my throat. I began to taste the first drops of his joy juice. His release was so close I could feel his ass muscles tense under my probing hands. I got a finger into his asscrack and poked his hole. He raised one of his legs and wrapped it around my neck. I got a good inch up his ass. He shoved the entire length of his cock into my mouth so that my nose was buried in his fly, sniffing his bush.

He yelled, “Fuck!” and ejaculated into my mouth. One, two, three, four squirts of thick, warm jism. He fired it like a machine gun, so quick I swallowed the streams without tasting them. I opened my fly, pulled out my dick and began rubbing. I looked up at Bobby who was cleaning his cock with a handkerchief, his balls hanging over my face. In less than a minute I shot a load as big as the company clerk’s, completing our personal business.

He rubbed his cock across my lips. “Kiss it good night.”

I did.

I never pulled KP or a shit detail for the remainder of my training. It’s who you blow that counts in this man’s army.

The final week of basic training would be a bivouac. Camping out and living as if in combat. The base was alive with rumors
and talk of pup tents measuring six by four. Two men to a tent. Well, that gave one pause. Who would I bunk with? Could I choose a buddy? I asked our company clerk if I could pick my tent mate. No fucking way. “We make up the list and post it the night before you leave on bivouac.”

“Give me Julio Zapata.”

“So you got a hard-on for the Cuban jalapeño? You could burn your tongue nibbling on that. Maybe I will and maybe I won’t.”

I got off detail by blowing the clerk so… “I’ll kiss your ass, Bobby.”

No yes or no this time. “My place tonight,” was his answer.

I pretended to go to the latrine and detoured to HQ. Bobby was waiting for me in his room with a bare ass and a stiff dick. This kid was a WASP jalapeño. “Bend over and take my picture, Bobby-boy.” He bent, spread his checks and showed me his camera. The lens was hairless, tan and puckered for the shot. I was once again on my knees for the company clerk, this time in a trade-off, or so I hoped.