Active Duty: Gay Military Erotic Romance (6 page)

Our clerk wiggled his hot ass and intoned. “
Click. Click. Click,
ass licker, go for it.”

I sniffed up the crack—not bad—then got the tip of my tongue on the poop hole. Bobby jerked up as I made contact. I licked the tender lips, first dutifully, then passionately. This A-hole was so good it had me tonguing up and down then in and out. “Deeper,” he yelled, shoving his ass in my face. Holding his hips for a firm grip I got my tongue in about two inches. The flesh there was so tender, so yielding. I guessed Bobby was a virgin. I was teasing his cherry with my tongue. The thought had me creaming in my pants.

“Fuck my ass,” he cried, and his fist brought on his orgasm, spending in jet streams of cum cream.

My jism was dripping like piss. I unzipped, fisted and dropped a load to equal his.

“Kiss my ass good night,” he ordered.

I did.

The list was posted the Sunday night before the Monday morning bivouac. Two hundred guys elbowed their way to the board. I saw Julio up front—saw him read it and turn back. He spotted me in the crowd and made his way to me. “Looks like you and me are asshole buddies, pal.”

I almost fainted.

Was I the first soldier in history to have a hard-on while setting up a six-by-four pup tent? Julio was a tall jalapeño. He would have to sleep with his legs bent or wrapped around my neck. Should I give him the choice? I didn’t have much time to think about it, as it was a grueling day of marching, crawling and eating out of a mess kit.
Mess
is the operative word. The sun set, the clouds rolled in and the rain began to fall. Just what we needed.

Exhausted, we retired to our tent, hoping it didn’t leak. Julio stripped down to his boxers and stretched out, his toes touching the tent’s flap. I got down to my jockeys and lay down beside him. Our arms and legs were inches apart. When my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see Julio tracing the line of hair that ran down his chest to the elastic band of his shorts. His fingers inched under the band. Was he going to…? I could see the outline of his cock inside his boxers. Was it hard or was the dark playing a trick on me? He took a deep breath and started to snore.

Well, no one promised me a honeymoon on my first bivouac.

I wanted to lick his skivvies. Tease his cock out of his fly then skin back his beautiful foreskin with my lips. I wanted
to jack off. Alas, I could do none of the above.

I dozed an hour then awoke on this rainy night. I glanced at my tent mate and thought I was dreaming. Julio’s cock was sticking straight out of his fly, listing slightly to his belly button. It was big, thick and sporting a drop of morning dew on its tip. His erection had peeled the foreskin so that it covered half the cock’s head. I wiggled around the tent pole without bringing it down on our heads. My nose was so close to Julio’s prick I could smell it. I was at the point of no return. Kill me he might, but I was going to do it. Yes. I was going to do what I had dreamed of doing since I first laid eyes on Julio Zapata.

I put my lips over the head of his cock, drinking in the aroma. I caressed the foreskin and slowly pulled it down to uncover the cockhead. As delicious as I had imagined it? No. More so. Much, much more so. My sleeping beauty sighed in his sleep. I began to suck, slowly, engaging my tongue to ride the foreskin up and down the shaft, covering and uncovering the big head. If I got caught I would die with my boots off and Julio Zapata’s cock in my mouth.

“What the fuck are you doing?” My hero was awake.

“Blowing you. You want me to stop?”

“Are you a fucking queer?”

“I’m queer for you, Julio.”

“You’re the only guy who ever said my name right.”

“That’s because I love you, Julio.”

“You gonna swallow my cum juice?”

“Every fucking drop.”

“Go for it, cocksucker.”

And I did.

“Don’t pull the skin all the way up. I’ll pop too quick. Suck the shaft and keep off the head.” For this being his first gay blow job, he certainly knew what he wanted.

I followed his instructions, eager to please and learn the dos and don’ts of sucking uncut cock. Julio inhaled and spread his long legs wide open as if inviting me in. Easing his cock out of my mouth I began to explore the terrain. I stuck my nose in his curly bush, sniffing; ran my tongue up his belly and into his belly button. He giggled. Moving up, I kissed his hairy chest, his pointed, pink tits, his neck. I looked into his smiling face. His dark eyes were fixed on me. He was licking his lips. “Suck me more.” My lips touched his. He hesitated a moment, then grabbed the back of my neck and stuck his tongue in my mouth. Cum cream shot out of my dick. He shoved my head down to where he wanted it, and I was at the mercy of my Cuban lover whose huge cock dripped semen into the puckered rim of his foreskin bunched up below the head.

“Lick me clean,” he instructed. I pulled off my shorts and went to it, savoring every drop, sticking my tongue under the foreskin and lapping the juice of love only Julio could feed me. My cock leaked cum like it was piss.

Julio wrapped his legs around my neck for the supreme moment when his cock gushed squirt after squirt of warm jism down my throat. He held my head on his cock until the well ran dry. We didn’t move for a good five minutes, exulting in the afterglow of our rapture.

“You’re a good cocksucker,” my hero complimented me.

“We’ll be in this tent for another four days,” I reminded him.

“I got a good supply of raincoats,” Julio told me.

“You took raincoats on bivouac. Why?”

“Because I heard it might rain.”

I kissed his balls. He lay back, stretched as best he could in our six-by-four home and began snoring. I got up and went out to take a piss.

I was nude but it was midnight, at least, and the rain had stopped. The sky was clearing and now riddled with stars. A half moon appeared and cast an eerie glow over the sleeping camp. I needed a cold drink but hated to rid my mouth of the taste of Julio’s generous secretions. I was elated, giddy and perhaps in love. I was also hearing voices coming from the area of our outhouse. I moved in closer. The sounds were coming from behind the outhouse. I approached and peered around the corner.

There were three people there, one of them kneeling. What the fuck was this? Unless I was hallucinating it was the staff sergeant, John Caputo, bending over our company clerk, fucking the shit out of him; literally and figuratively speaking, I’m sure. Standing over the buggering couple was our Sergeant Billy Baker, his prick sticking out of his boxers as he egged on his buddy, Caputo.

I doubt Bobby was being raped as he was bucking his ass into Sergeant Caputo, bouncing up and down as Caputo’s long, fat prick worked the clerk’s back passage.

“You want sloppy seconds?” Caputo offered Sergeant Baker.

“I’ll fuck his mouth first,” Sergeant Baker said, grabbing Bobby’s head and shoving his cock in the clerk’s open mouth.

I thought it was time for me to make my presence known. “Can I be of assistance?” I volunteered.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Sergeant Baker snapped at me, his prick deep down Bobby’s throat.

“I came to take a piss. What are you doing?”

“What does it look like we’re doing, Private? We’re taking the company clerk’s cherry. It’s a bivouac tradition,” was Baker’s explanation of the midnight fuck.

Bobby was getting it front and rear from two of the finest pricks on the base and he owed it all to being a computer wiz. Will wonders never cease?

My eyes were on Baker’s cock, fucking Bobby’s mouth. I’d wanted a look at that since day one of our basic training. I bent closer and sniffed Sergeant Baker’s balls. He freed his cock from Bobby’s eager lips and, as I had suspected, it was generous in length and girth and sported a foreskin that completely covered the head, ending in a tight hump around the pee-pee hole. I skinned him back and kissed the head.

“You’ve got enough hangover to dock me,” I told him.

“Yeah, dock him,” Caputo urged, not missing a stroke.

“That’s queer,” Baker said.

“Dock him, then fuck him, if it makes you feel better,” the ever-inventive Caputo advised.

Sergeant Baker liked that and so did I. He bent to get his dick in line with mine.

My cock was still flaccid after my explosion with Julio and just perfect for what Sergeant Baker intended. When our dicks kissed he pulled up the foreskin to encase it over my cock’s head.

I was docked with Sergeant Baker. It was more thrilling than anything I had ever done. It was warm, it was intoxicating, it was FANFUCKINGTASTIC. If this was bivouac,
vive la guerre
.

“I’m going to cream,” Caputo shouted.

“Me too,” young Bobby cried, bucking his ass into Caputo’s ejaculating dick.

I had my fist wrapped around my cock, rubbing the head with the sergeant’s prepuce. Caputo and Bobby were in their rapture. I took a chance and kissed Sergeant Baker on his lips. He responded by sticking his tongue in my mouth.

I could no longer put off what I had come here to do. “I have to piss,” I told my sergeant.

He put his lips to my ear and whispered. “Go for it.”

* * *

Bivouac is the hands-on phase of basic training that turns raw recruits into soldiers. Don’t think, even for a moment, that the new Army, with its acceptance of gays, is less rigorous in simulating wartime conditions when leaving the civilized comforts of camp for life in the raw. In fact, Julio and I were convinced it was more spartan than ever; an apt description as Sparta, remember, was home to the army of lovers who reigned supreme in ancient Greece.

We returned to our tent each night, exhausted but pleased that we had not only survived but grown in body and spirit. We ate our rations (ugh), showered in cold water (shiver) and fell into each other’s arms for warmth and comfort. Like millions of fighting men before our time, we became comrades in arms. I told Julio about the cruising area behind the outhouse. We took a peek that night and caught sergeants Baker and Caputo enjoying a circle jerk with a black recruit.

“You want to join in?” I asked Julio.

“Let’s go home,” he answered with his hand on my bare ass.

HOME?

Yeah, that pup tent was our home and Julio, with his body pressed against me, made it clear that we comrades were now lovers.

MARINE GUARD

Dirk Strong

W
hen I arrived in Rome in March, the city was jammed with tourists preparing for Easter week. The Triduum, or three-day period just before Easter Sunday, was a whirlwind of activity, and the congestion made it incredibly difficult to navigate the couple of blocks from my apartment to my new job as a consular officer at the U.S. Embassy.

I finally made it to the Palazzo Margherita, a grand century-old Renaissance-style palace on the Via Vittorio Veneto. Once the residence of Queen Margherita of Savoy, the widow of King Umberto I of Italy, it was acquired by the American government in 1946. Palm trees stood sentinel outside the iron fence, and entrance to the building itself was controlled by an arched gateway staffed by members of the Marine Security Guard.

I stepped up to the gate juggling a briefcase, a laptop and a Rollaboard suitcase filled with a couple of changes of clothes to keep in my office. In the diplomatic corps you have to be prepared for almost anything. The Marine guard on duty was
six-foot-two of gorgeous manflesh—jarhead haircut over a model-handsome face with sharply etched features, broad shoulders shoehorned into a dress uniform, narrow waist, perfectly creased blue slacks and spit-shined black dress shoes.

I dropped my briefcase on his foot as I fumbled in my pocket for my ID. “My name is Adam Burr,” I said, finally retrieving my ID. “I’m starting today.”

The Marine, whose badge said his name was Roemer, looked me up and down, and I felt a shiver of sexual anticipation run through my body. He reviewed my credentials. “As long as you’re not Aaron Burr,” he said, handing them back to me. “Remember, no illegal dueling on embassy property.”

“I’ll keep my eye out for Hamiltons,” I said, and that’s when Lucas Roemer and I shared our first smile. Late that night, back in my apartment, I remembered that smile and used it to fuel my first jack-off in my new position.

My job was to help U.S. citizens abroad who lost their passports, got into trouble with the law or otherwise needed assistance navigating the intricate Roman bureaucracy. I loved my job, because in addition to the requisite desk work, I got to travel around the city meeting with officials and solving problems.

The best part of the job was returning to the embassy when Lucas Roemer was on guard duty. The primary mission of the Marine Security Guard was to provide internal security for government secrets and information. The secondary mission of his detachment was to provide protection for U.S. citizens and U.S government property located within the embassy. I wanted to acquire Lucas’s protective services personally—but the military’s pesky Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell meant that any connection between Lucas and me would have to remain an erotic fantasy rather than a reality.

From that first shared smile, I had a feeling that Lucas was
gay. The next time that he and I talked, we were in the gardens behind the embassy in early May. I had just finished escorting a delegation from a tractor manufacturer interested in selling to Italy, and I took a moment to relax beside the fountain featuring a marble statue of the god Triton blowing a conch shell spouting water. Lucas caught me checking out the god’s endowment, which looked pretty good since I hadn’t seen another man’s dick in person in too long.