Connor Chapter 3: The Assault

There was a lot more complaining from Connor, the big-dicked, half-cocked petulant child that he is.

I just ignored him. After all; adjustment is often painful for the more simple-minded (IE straight) among us and ultimately, he was getting a pretty good deal, wasn't he?

I could've asked for a lot worse.

I wondered what we must look like to passing shoppers -- me, dressed in my jeans and AC/DC T-shirt, dragging this loutish, uncooperative brute round a shopping centre as if I were his mother.

The most obvious place to drag him to was the bathroom; but a shopping mall bathroom on a Saturday afternoon? Yuck.

We made our way across the fifth level to the glass elevator. What is it with shopping centres and glass elevators? As if they're trying to make you think you're in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory or something.

Anyway, we were the only ones to board the empty elevator on our level, and I pressed the button for the ground floor.

Connor leaned against the glass back wall of the elevator car as we trundled downward. Testing the waters, I perfunctorily slid my fingers under the waistband of his white trackies and red-banded Calvin Kleins, and pulled them both back away from his waist so I could peer down at the contents of his trousers. I got a good look at his restrained pink cock in its clear plastic tube, the sheathed glans bulging against the perspex at one end, and framing the lad's hairy ballsack beneath.

The slap of Connor hitting my hand away reverberated in the glass car as he stared at me with a disbelieving frown. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he shouted.

"Jesus, calm the fuck down," I said, as if what I'd done was perfectly normal, "I just wondered what your cock looked like in that thing, is all."

Hey, at least it was the truth.

"I ain't fuckin proud of it, dickhead," he replied.

No I bet not, I thought. Just then the doors slid open and a family entered, ending our conversation there.

Even so, I relished openly looking at the front of his nylon-covered crotch, keeping him both unsettled and angry.

After a few moments, we were deposited on the bottom level, and we made our way to the car park.

I had parked in a quiet corner, where (I hoped) no one would come upon us, err, cumming.

We both got in the back of the car, and as soon as my door was closed, I pulled my jeans and boxers down my legs before saying to him, "right, off you go then."

He looked at me beneath the cap and hood he still wore over his head, face aghast. "What do you mean, 'off you go'? That...that's it? We're doing it, are we?"

"What, do you want to get to know me first or something?"

"Well, fuck, Jesus Christ, no, but-"

"Maybe go to cinema with me, or the fare, where I could buy you some candy floss, something like that?"

"Fuck man, shut up for a minute, would you? Th-this is all just so sudden."

"Listen, if it helps, let me say that what with you being so fucking fit and everything, and knowing that you've got that thing wrapped round your cock stopping you from getting a hardon, I guarantee that I won't last long."

"Yeah, that doesn't help," he replied dryly.

"Well, man, I dunno what to tell you. I mean, you want the key, right? So really, you've gotta earn it. Yes?"

"Man, please..."

I put my hand on his shoulder as a reassurance, but unable to stop myself from rubbing the hard muscle. "Listen mate. Just think. I could've asked for a LOT worse. Couldn't I? I mean, before thinking about how shitty giving a handjob might be, think about how shitty any of the other things I could've demanded from you might be."

My sulky Pitbull slowly nodded. "'spose so."

"Yeah, you do. So just treat my cock as a practice for when you wank yourself off later on, and get going."

He spent another two minutes staring at my erect prick. I began to feel a little self-conscious.

Deciding he would respond well to some well-meaning but assertive guidance, I took his right hand -- the one nearest to me -- and slowly brought it over to my lap.

He looked away, but he didn't resist.

My big strong army lad flinched -- and whimpered -- when the tip of his forefinger impacted the white-hot shaft of my cock.

I slouched contentedly as I brought his hand further into my crotch, until the shaft of my organ rested in the palm of his hand.

As I used my other hand to physically curl each of his fat, rough fingers around my cock, he closed his eyes and started shaking his head.

You know when someone on a reality show is made to eat a bucket of crickets or a pair of kangaroo testicles? It was like that. Like, he was in his own world, praying for salvation.

I have honestly never seen anyone have quite such an allergic reaction to giving another person a hand-job...but I didn't let the awkwardness of his impending complete mental collapse stop me!

When I had wrapped his fingers around the shaft of my cock, I wrapped my hand around his bigger hand, and started moving it up, and down, making sure the calloused, well-worked pads of his fingers ran over the juicy knob on each upward stroke.

"So, I'm going to take my hand away now Connor," I say reassuringly, "but you have to keep moving your hand like that, ok?"

He grumbled a low moan of ascent, his eyes still closed; his brain unattached.

I slowly removed my hand, and his hand still kept up the pace at precisely the same speed, as if he were a masturbating pentameter.

My right hand now moved to his knee, rubbing the white polyester material of his trackies briefly before moving onto the inside of his hard right thigh. The nature of sitting in the back of the cramped car meant that Connor's legs were splayed open; an ideal position for the lad to reveal his thus-far unmolested treasures to me.

"S-stop," he whispered, "y-your g-gonna make me h-hard, man..."

Not taking no for an answer, my hand continued to massage the thickly corded muscle as it made its way up to the mass of sweaty straight meat between Connor's spread legs.

"N-no..." he feebly said again, his eyes squeezed shut.

I leaned over to him, slid my other hand behind the back of his hooded head, and comfortingly pulled his head into my shoulder as I sunk my face into the thickly smooth hoodie which covered his own shoulder.

He let out a yelp as I did this, no doubt in reaction to my right hand, which had just slid beneath his waistband and into the murky depths of his trackies, like a hunter-killer submarine seeking its prey.

The points of my fingers glided across the hot, soft cotton of his CK boxer-briefs until they ran into something hard.

But not hard like that; not flesh-hard. No, this was control hard. Playstation hard.

Unnaturally hard.

My hand ran along the plastic case covering his organ, before delving deeper, and digging triumphantly into the round yielding flesh and warm cotton exterior of the well-stocked ammo pouch between his muscular thighs.

I shushed him as he continued to whimper in reaction to me continuing to explore his independently minded sex organs.

His whimpers matured into elicit little animalistic barks of pain, whilst I breathed in the sickly sweet scent of his lynx deodorant and the more delicate, tart scents of socks and precum beneath.

Because of all this -- because of the man, because of the stink, and out of unbridled respect for the Parachute Regiment, I came heavily, depositing string after string of my messy wet load over his big, straight hand.

He pulled away from my shoulder and gingerly pulled his hand away from my wilting cock, looking at it and the stains which adorned it as I still rooted around between his legs, my arm and hand a noticeable, obvious lump in his trackies, my fingers now swirling through the matted, sweaty carpet of fur which I had seen adorning his thighs on video, and which I could now feel for myself.

He went from looking at his hand to looking at me. "What..."

The hand which had previously been cradling my Pitbull's big thick skull moved to the hem of his hoodie, wrapping the material around his spunk-slick fingers, my hand pressing the crisp material into the clumps of juice on his hand.

"Why...did you...?"

Not wanting him to dwell too much on the situation, I extracted my hand from his trackies and slid down onto the floor, between his still spread thighs.

He sat there looking at me as I gripped the waistband and pulled both his trackies and white boxer-briefs down mid-thigh, revealing a thick bodied, big headed beast, desperately trying to escape its bonds -- and failing.

"Shit man, please..." was all Connor said in protest when my pinky finger slipped through one of the holes to scratch at the sheathed head of his powerful, fused explosive.

The padlock preventing removal was located at the base of his prick, deep within the nest of a gnarled and unkempt pubic bush.

"Well," I said, "I suppose this is the simple bit."

Connor said nothing as I produced the all-important key.

I greatly enjoyed man-handling his sweaty armaments a little further, as I very slowly undid the padlock which bound his genitals to me.

He was slouched in the back seat of my car, head still generally obscured by his hood and hat, his legs pretty much as far spread as the trackies at his ankles would allow.

"Oops," I said after five minutes of my fingers running through his swampy pubic bush and hefting his equally pungent unwashed ballsack, "think I've got the key the wrong way round. Wondered why it wasn't working! Hang on a minute."

What with my fingers arousing the dormant scents contained within the lads genitals, as well as his heavily perspiring, hairy form producing a hell of a lot more, the humid environment of the car soon stank with the smell of Connor's cock and balls.

I said dismissively, "might I suggest when you get home, before having a wank, you perhaps consider having a shower? Your cock fucking reeks mate."

Of course, I'd rather he do no such thing, but it kept Connor feeling sufficiently self-conscious to continue allowing me free reign over his genitals.

"Huzzah!" I shouted theatrically, breaking him out of his self-induced coma, and removing the padlock from Connor's crotch with one hand, whilst my other continued to tickle the hairs and finger the intricately ridged flesh of his sphere-shaped ballsack.

He let out a sigh of relief. "Oh thank fucking God. I thought I'd have to get a fuckin fireman to get me out of that thing."

An interesting thought.

I chuckled as I slowly removed the snug, sweaty plastic cylinder from the lad's dick, which rapidly unfurled the instant it was free.

The air inside the car exploded with the release of eleven days worth of straight dick stink. I quite legitimately coughed slightly, causing Connor to sheepishly apologise.

I looked at his dick. Coated in shimmering spicy sweat, pink with a deep blue vein running along one side, and growing a little bit longer but much thinker and more menacing with each passing second as it reacts to sudden release - and sited just above that darkly hairy sphere of rippled flesh where he keeps his babies. Delightful.

He reached down to pull up his trackies but I, hypnotised by the sight before me, moved to take his dick in-hand.

"Christ man, that's it, Ok? Play time's fuckin' over," he said menacingly.

"Yeah, yeah, I know that, just...just, hang on a minute, I think I've spotted something," I said.

Now, obviously, all I've spotted is a delightfully proportioned, girlie loving army dick I want to cuddle for a bit, but I clearly can't exactly tell him that.

"What?" he demands insistently, urgently.

Grasping for something - anything - to say, I suddenly remember in the back of my mind his email from earlier that day; might he be genuinely fearful of the state of his dick? I didn't have anything else to go on -- but every lad is scared of something befalling their dick...and it would enable me to present myself as the sort of authority figure he would unquestioningly respect. Also, I quite fancied playing army doctor with the fit squaddie, anyway.

"Well now, Connor, I know you don't know this, but I'm, um, a doctor, and I think I may of spotted some damage."

"DAMAGE?" he shouts, now terrified that his pride and joy has suffered some sort of injury.

"Just, just...just shut up for a minute, ok, and let me, um, check..."

"What sort of damage?"

"Well..." I slowly skin back the grenade-shaped head of his already half-hard prick, revealing some buxom glans, coloured a deep shade of purple, and perspiring heavily with a wet sheen coating the delicate flesh.

I carefully squeeze the head a couple of times, compelling a tiny bead of liquid to appear. The boy's spread thighs briefly tighten in response, but he says nothing.

"Is your dick head always this colour?" I ask, suddenly realising I need to complete my sentence.

"Yes," he replies.

"Hmm," I say, sounding worried, "I thought so. Yes, I'd better investigate a little further, I think."

He frowns; a natural reaction to my sentences no longer making logical sense, but he remains pliant; like any good army boy, he does what the doctor says. My hand quickly establishes complete authority over his cocked rifle as I quickly yank his trackies and boxers down and over his slim

white trainers, the boxers catching a couple of times on the blunt rubber of his shoes, but otherwise removed very quickly and without incident.

"Is this necessary?" he asks shakily, pushing himself up on an elbow, concern etched on his hard, uncompromising face.

"If it wasn't, I wouldn't be doing it Corporal," I say, repeating something I'd heard on either Casualty or Holby City, I can't remember which, maintaining my position of authority.

On my knees.

Between his legs.

I then take a calf in each hand, and suddenly and quickly hoist his bottom half up into the air of my car.

He is unable to stop himself from sliding further down the seat, losing control of his own body as I continue to pull on his feet until he's fully on his back. His legs fly this way and that as he shouts "whoa, stop, fuck, what the fuck!"

Without releasing my grip of his flailing feet, I reply "Connor, I'm just doing a quick, rudimentary investigation. This is how they do check-ups at the hospital, ok? Calm down, please -- you can either let me do it now, or you can go and see your GP about it. I'm sure that daft old codger would enjoy having a rummage round your bits and pieces."

When I say that -- and introduce the possibility of yet another person having to examine his genitals for him -- his legs stop flailing.

And so that was how it came to be that in the car park of the city's biggest shopping mall on a busy Saturday afternoon, I had a 24 year old paratrooper on his back on the rear seat of my car.

Thick hoodie covering him from the waist up, naked from the waist down, each white trainered foot pointing skyward and resting on the headrests of the front seats; thick white sports socks poking out from the cuffs with a black Lacoste crocodile logo on each one.

My very own armed forces bitch, with his powerful, gentle body spread out across the expanse of my car's interior. I was where I wanted to be, between his lustily bevelled, lusciously muscular thighs, where I was ideally placed to both take in the sights and smells of his hunky frame, as well as exercise my hard earned right to control his exquisitely horny breeding equipment.

And of course, the name of the game was control. I might of given his cock an airing from its cage; let it stretch its legs and get some much needed exercise, but it was still my property, now.

The lad himself looked up, at the ceiling. The shadow cast by his thick hood and low cap gave him an enigmatically hard-edged, urban look, but with his closed eyes and occasional whimpers emerging from his fat pink lips, we both knew that he was no longer the one in control.

Of anything.

But he was scared, bless him.

I wanted to make him feel better.

My left hand absent mindedly ran along one hairy, oblique thigh as my right took the lead in examining him.

He was hard by now; having grown hard without any real stimulation from me. I put that down to horniness.

I began by sliding his loose, generous foreskin back and forward a few times; a droopy mass of skin which slid over the lad's purple dome, easy as pie.

"You have a bit of smegma here behind the head, Connor. I can smell it from here, in fact. Do you clean your genitals properly when your in the shower?"

"Yes! It's that fucking thing I had to wear!" his voice cracked a couple of times as he screamed his response at me.

I remained measured; professional. "Hmm. I see."

As my thumb and fingers continued to tickle and agitate the poor lad's glans, now alive with that sexual itch, he put his forearm over his face, clearly uncomfortable with my impromptu, intimate medical exam.

When I was satisfied with his foreskin, I briefly sniffed my sour thumb and pulled him back fully, revealing the purple dome one more time and pulling his chunky launcher forward, so I could stare down his dark pisshole.

I squeezed the head a few times, puckering the unhappy soldier's happy, winking cumslit as my wide thumb reassuringly stroked the damp right flank of his purple dome.

The cords of muscle under my other hand tightened as first one, and then another translucent drop of musky laddish treacle appeared at his tip.

When his deep well was good and full of straight pre-slop, my index finger dipped into it a couple of times, pulling away a thick string of excitement for us both to take a good look at.

He wasn't looking.

"See?" I said, happily. "You do make a fair bit of precum! I thought you did when I saw you -- that's why I asked man; you look like the type. Like the sort of lad who's got the whole 'breeding' thing down to a fine art."

About a foot from his dick, the string broke.

I went back to play again, like a five year old with a brand new plastic fire station, unable to stay away; my finger circling the wide head briefly, forcing his sex rocket to burble up some more, so I could make another string.

As I pulled my finger away I remarked, "it's pretty thick, mate. Like syrup. Syrup which fucking stinks, though! Reckon I'll have to fumigate this car when I get your cock and balls out of it. Is your prejizz  always this thick?"

He didn't respond, still keeping his arm over his mean face whilst I mercilessly toyed with his cock, testing the quality and quantity of his malodorous baby drool.

Pretty soon, I got bored of that too, so I ended that part of the examination.

I pulled his dick further toward me, so it was horizontal, before letting it 'thwack' against the hoodie covering his tummy.

Dribbles of pre began to stain it.

"Oh, hang on..." I pulled his dick back once more, but pushed up the front of his hoodie, revealing his hairy, defined stomach.

I allowed his dick to catapult against his stomach a couple more times, remarking, "good and hard...very stiff. But I suppose that's because you haven't cum in eleven days, right? Makes you harder then you normally would be."

He didn't rise to my bait, instead asking, "is it over yet? Am I alright?"

"No, not yet," I said definitively.

My left hand continued its soothing massage of the corded muscle coating his thigh as might right left his dick for the moment, and headed south, into the fetid climes of his dark, uncharted crotch.

He breathed in and tensed as my finger nails ran along the hairy, corrugated flesh which housed his nads, now drawn up and perfectly displayed between his muscular outstretched thighs.

The blunt edges of my finger delicately poked and prodded the cushioned walnuts within, and his foot nearly slipped when I brought up the heel of my hand to take the whole thing in my grasp, my claw like fingers digging into his mentally neutered, but physically resplendent, taut ballbag.

"When'd you start getting hair on your nuts," I ask matter-of-factly.


Keeping my one hand on his nuts, I bring the other from his thigh to take charge of his dick.

I start stroking. Not quickly; slowly. Deliberately. Taking my time over it.

Each upward stroke is accompanied by a slow squeeze toward the tip; a gentle, exquisitely uncomforting, but oh-so-necessary corkscrew, chaffing his blighted glans wonderfully, and compelling him to quietly murmur in anguish.

Each down stroke is slow; purposeful, sliding the entirety of the protective covering from his head, and exposing his marbled dome to the air.

Only now does his arm move; his legs shuffle; he sits up and looks at me, "no," he says forcefully; pathetically.

No? No?!? lol. Mate, we are beyond 'no', I think.

"What's the big deal," I mutter, my hand speeding up as I work him over, to frig with his brain as well as his prick; scramble his logic as well as the pearled contents of his nuts. "You've had a hell of a day, champ; you should just sit back and let me take care of you."

"I ain't ga-"

"-and besides, you gave me a handjob, remember? Least I can do to return the favour. Just let me run things for a bit, Corp."

His head falls back, as his hands ball up into pointless fists.

"There we go," I mutter. "Good boy, there we go," my hand steadily accelerating the deliverance of his relief.

I perceive the front seats behind me moving forward; Connor is now pushing the big feet on the end of his powerful legs into the chairs.

I take this to be a good sign.

Talking is now over; his straight mental defences have crumbled, and he is singularly focussed on breeding my fist. The only sound in the car is loud clicking of his foreskin as it is manipulated over and under the desperately distraught, deeply purple head.

Six minutes. Maybe less. He doesn't last long.

When I feel his thickly weeping dick tighten, with his eyes once more closed, I remove my hand from his ballsack, and replace it with my tongue.

I swipe my slithering tongue across the furred surface like snake, my teeth gently digging into the supple flesh as I suck up the trooper's richly flavoured sex sweat, now generously coating his sticky, unwashed nutsack.

As I do so, with my nose pushing into the base of his testosterone-packed bone, the explosive charge deep within him triggers an earth-shattering sub-surface detonation as projectile after steaming, thick projectile of squaddie stuffing is fired into orbit.

The first gummy blob flies gracefully through the air and strikes the back seat of my car, staining the dark upholstery; the second hits his chin, and after one streaks across the chest of his grey hoodie, his remaining drippings decorate his hairy tummy, his shaft and his wet, stale pubes.

He goes to get up.

But it's difficult; his whorish position does not allow an easy getaway.

It's no trouble at all for me to sink my hand into the slack muscle of his right pec and intone, 'stay'.

He meekly stays where he is whilst I suck up the aromatically fragrant, laddish gravy from his firm stomach; my tongue separating and sucking up my big little warrior's deliciousness from each greasy, matted follicle of hair.

I descend into the fetid badlands of his wild and musky pubic bush; I stop briefly as my senses are overwhelmed by the pure, undiluted stink of him, concentrated in the dank swamp at the base of his prick.

My mouth, already smeared with his sexual stickiness, hoovers up oily clumps of sauce from his dirty pubes whilst my hand contentedly scratches

the built, hairy belly of my now pliant and supine Pitbull.

His docility does not remain indefinitely, however.

After five minutes of investigating his bush with my face, in which time I've also managed to surreptitiously clean his softening tubesteak of his cooling, richly textured babysauce, he pushes me off, quite hard.

He doesn't want to play anymore.

"That's enough," he mumbles. "This ain't...this ain't gonna be...a thing. Or anything. Don't talk to me again, if you see me. An' if you tell anyone...anyone...I'll break your fuckin' legs."

Adjustment is often painful for the more simple-minded.

I nod. "Sure."

I produce the cock cage, and go to put it on him.

He grabs my hand. "What do you think your doing?"

His eyes slice straight through me, knocking me to the floor.

I answer as though its obvious. "Putting this back on. The...the letter, said I had to? What, you didn't know? You were supposed your business -- a bit of relief, like...and then, well, it goes back on."

He nods slowly, not taking his eyes off me. "Yeah. Well, I think I'll take that."

He speaks in an assertive, aggressive manner which makes me wonder if pushing this is a good idea.

"B-but the letter-"

He begins to crush my hand within his own as he says, "I'm taking this off you now."


"I THINK," he shouts, "I've earned it. Don't you? And this isn't a fucking discussion."

He slips the cage into his pocket, leaving me with the padlock and its key in my own pocket.

Connor takes off his stained hoodie, revealing his well built upper body, and leaves the car without further word.

I'm pissed off. He got the better of me, and that...that, I could not take. Some dopey straight thug; who the fuck does he think he is?! As I reached for the digital camera and turned off its camcorder, I determined to make him pay.

Pay, big.