Connor Chapter Five: Squaddie In Full Retreat
"Hi, Connor." I greeted him warmly on his own doorstep. After all, I wouldn't want our neighbours to think anything untoward.
He was dressed as instructed, in a pair of standard-issue tan camouflage DPM combat trousers; made of a thick synthetic material which made them baggy and heavy,. He wore nothing above the waist but his circular, regulation dog tags around his thick neck, so I was afforded another look at the rugged carpeted mountain range of his chest.
He stared at me with bleary, squinting eyes, lazily scratching one firm, pronounced pec as he did so. "What...you're the dude from the shopping centre? What the fuck are you doing here?! I thought I said..."
He had obviously just been awoken by my door knocking. Given that it was 7am on a Saturday morning, this was to be expected. I guess it could also explain the slowness of his mind.
"Yeah, I am the dude from the shopping centre. I'm also the guy who's been sending those emails. Funny how things work out, isn't it? How about if I come inside so we can chat about it?"
He folded his arms across his chest, looking up at me with a look of smug self-satisfaction. "Well, the truth fucking comes out. Reckon you're pretty fucking smart, don't you? Coming out a few days before I go back on deployment. Do you have any idea who you're messing with? I could make your life hell, mate, twenty-four seven hell, three hundred and sixty days a year."
I smiled and nodded. "Yes. But you won't be doing that, will you? Because we're both having so much fun, aren't we?"
"Fun?! You fuckin-"
"How about," I say a little more loudly, "instead of idly arguing about this on your doorstep, I come inside?"
Before he could answer, I barged past him into the house. Despite his physical advantage over me, he made no effort to stop me.
He was rapidly becoming the big, gentle pussy of my dreams.
It hadn't been easy to get to this point. After waking up with a toothbrush up his ass and cum on his face, Connor's immediate reaction was to call the police. He threatened me with that, quite a few times.
Which just made me laugh, really. This big tough guy -- with 'friends' who could 'sort me out', threatening to get the law on me. Fucking pathetic. But it was a good sign -- it meant he was desperate.
And what do you do when a straight lad is desperate? Why you give him absolutely no compromise whatsoever, of course. I mean, fuck. You've basically won.
As time passed, and the nature of the situation facing him sunk in – the video I had, the pictures I had, my ability to 'get to him' -- after he fully understood and conceptualised all that in his slow little brain, his indignation was rapidly replaced with the subservience he commonly provided to superiors in the Forces.
Like all these big butch army lads, he's a simple-minded giant who, when the chips are down and after you've pissed on him enough, will meekly lie down and do what he's told.
It was a week since he'd sent me the video of his brother reapplying his little dick holder for him; in his brother's room, trackies and boxers round his thighs, whilst his spectacled teenage swot of a brother sat in a computer chair before him, taking his sweet time putting the hellish sleeve back over him.
I doubted the brother was attracted to big Connor, but I was willing to bet that he certainly appreciated the reversal in power -- perhaps even to the extent that it caused a little stirring.
After he was tethered, this raised an obvious question for him -- how could he get it off?
Naturally, I had a solution for him. By getting his brother to do the deed, he had passed his third test. Only one more to go. I'll pop round when the family's away. Then maybe you'll be able to convince me to take it off, I taunted.
When he realised that his device wouldn't be coming off until he managed to get his entire family out the house, it quickly became his pet project to get them out of the house as soon as possible.
And here we are.
I walk through the house to the large kitchen, where I sit in one of the wooden chairs lining the breakfast table.
Connor groggily comes in after me, his face hardened into a scowl. "Well thanks for coming indoors; 'cos now I'm gonna break every bone in your body."
I smiled. "I can see the realisation of who I am has scrambled your circuits a little bit, but let's remain rational here. As stupid as you are, Connor, you're not so stupid that you'd risk hurting me. Let's just
remind ourselves what I have on file, shall we? I have a video of you masturbating in your mother's underwear, a video of you giving me a handjob in the back seat of a car, a video of you getting your brother to attach a chastity device to your own penis. I also have still images of you breaking the law -- yes, I forgot to delete those, sorry. Oh, and I have images of you being sodomised with your own toothbrush, and with your face covered in spunk. Let's briefly think - using our inside voices, because it's still quite early and I'd rather avoid the usual theatrics, what would follow if that material was made public. And then, Connor, how about if we drop the whole fucking pretence that you have any say -- ANY say at all -- over what happens here today. Ok?"
"Materials which you can't do anything with, if your dead," he said ridiculously.
I laughed. "Good point. And you're certainly capable of that, and I have no doubt that one man has killed another over matters a lot more trifling than these. But who's to say that the material is just idly sitting on my hard drive? Maybe I've left my home computer on, with an email application left open which will send a particular email to a particular set of addresses at a particular time, unless I get home and stop it before then. Or maybe it's not even on my computer any more; maybe I've burned the whole thing to a DVD, put in a parcel and left it at a post-office, waiting to be sent to a particular address in Monday's post -- unless I get to the post-office before then, make sure I see the same old dear I'd spoken to when I first visited, and tell her I've made a terrible mistake, begging her to let me have the envelope back. Yeah, maybe I did that. OR, maybe I've put the whole thing in a parcel, and left it outside the main gate at your brother's college, with his name on the front -- come Monday, it'll no doubt be handed over to him by confused staff...provided I don't go and retrieve it before the college opens on Monday, of course. Or maybe, Connor, maybe there's no fucking intricate plan at all -- maybe I've just left my computer on, with one of the videos playing on a loop beside an open text document detailing what the video is and where I've gone today, for my next of kin to find."
Connor stood there, speechless. I continued, "here's the thing, Connor. You're good with your hands, and I have no doubt you're an excellent Corp, but you're also a fucking idiot. No no, don't start arguing with me -- you know that yourself. You know your brain isn't meant for this sort of low, dishonourable skulduggery, so just quietly admit defeat, and take off your fucking trousers, ok?"
"I said, just admit defeat -- allow it to wash over you; to become a thing of the past, and resolve to get this one day -- THIS ONE FUCKING DAY -- over and done with, because if you do what you're told, then when you go to sleep tonight, you'll be free. Now, isn't that worth spending one day with someone else in charge?"
He gulped, and spoke quietly. "Yes. I get that. I was reacting to the 'take your trousers off' bit-"
"I mean, every day you're on deployment, someone else is in fucking charge, so what's the big deal? The only difference is that today, that person is me. And the first thing I'm telling you to do is take off your trousers. So fucking get on with it."
"This is fuc-"
"If you have a problem, Connor, just say. Please, just fucking say. And I'll leave, and you can reap the whirlwind after certain people get to see some certain videos and images. But really, that'd be a shame, wouldn't it? To get so close to the end; to compromise yourself so fully and so explicitly -- remember when you were in my car, legs in the air whilst I drained your balls for you? Or when your brother put your sweaty little cup on? It'd be a shame if all that was for naught. If, after all that, you end up in a situation no different from what would've happened if you'd just ignored that first email and kept on seeing your mates and shagging your girlfriend. Still, your choice. Mate."
I waited for ten seconds or so, relishing the inevitable silence.
Then, I stood.
"Oh I see," I said, as if hit by a sudden epiphany. "I get it, Corp. I see what the issue is. Heheh. You and your fucking pride." I took the few steps necessary so I was standing immediately before him. "It's fine, Corp. I'll, um, 'force' you to do it, shall I?"
I chuckled as I fell to my knees. He moved to take a few steps back but he was constrained by my arms, which wrapped themselves around his fit legs before I mashed by face into the heavy material of his combat trousers, inhaling the intoxicating bed stink of army boy's demure sex junk.
I spend a few moments snorting around his sweaty under-carriage, his taught ball sack barely discernible through the thick trousers, but the laddish perfume he was exuding -- particularly now, what with the weirdness of the situation causing him to perspire delightfully - was more noticeable, and that was what my pointy nose, now nudging into the ridged seam lining the depths of his crutch, was after.
He defensively held his arms up, as if he were afraid of touching me. "Jesus Christ, fuck, that's disgusting, man," he whispers, but he doesn't go to move me.
My hand slide up, over his rounded bottom, to his waistband. My face still burrowed in his groin, I forcefully pulled apart the Velcro straps, and pulled my face away from him so I could yank the heavy trousers down his hairy legs.
His cock was framed in his boxers, and whilst he was still soft, his sheath caused an un-natural lump in them. "Don't," he said, as if warning me.
I chuckled. "Don't worry, Corp. I have your best interests at heart."
I carefully handled his bony ankles and fleshy lower legs whilst he stood there like a lemon, allowing me to remove the trousers from his feet. After removing them, I wanted very much to return to his groin, but that wasn't part of the plan.
I stood up, and returned to my seat at the kitchen table, so I could look him over as he stood before me. His hands protectively shielded the front of his tight grey boxer-briefs from view, but I enjoyed gazing once more upon his contoured legs, darkly furred and finely developed from the untold number of patrols and engagements in the hinterlands of Asia.
"Good," I said approvingly. "Very good. I didn't get a good look at you when you were in the back of my car, so you'll have to forgive me if I have a little look'see now."
He opted to just look at the wall opposite, his grey eyes unresponsive as I humiliatingly stared at him as if he were livestock.
Making a swirling motion with my hand I instructed, "twirl round so I can see the other side, good boy."
I could see his eyes roll as he slowly spun on his ankle-socked heels, and look up at the ceiling as he stood facing away from me.
Of course, this was completely unnecessary -- I'd seen every inch of his body on video, and as for his ass...well, I'd become more than acquainted with that part of him whilst he was peacefully in the land of nod. But it helped establish the groundwork for our day together; normalise him to it all, and set the tone for how things were going to progress.
It was important that he knew his place: that he understood the chain of command whenever he was off deployment. Part of this involved speaking to him as if he were a ten year old. This is because, whilst he is a surly straight lad with a straight lad's not inconsiderable sexually-derived needs, I knew it'd be easier to get him to surrender his needs to my authority after I've laced our sex together with a strong dose of infantilism; get him to associate good sex with an absence of control on his part.
After a couple of excruciating minutes, I said, "okie dokie, that'll do for now. Why don't you make some breakfast for the two of us."
Connor moved quickly to put his trousers back on, before I admonished him with "Connor! What did I just say about doing what you're told? You can put your trousers on when I say, and not before."
My good little soldier slowly stood upright, a look of resigned indignation on his face. "Ok," he said slowly, his jaw fixed and his teeth grating with irritation, "fine. What do you want for breakfast, Sir?"
"What have you got, Corp?"
"Nothing," he quickly replied.
I smiled. "I see. How about bread? Do you have that, and the ability to make fire? If so, we'll have some toast."
"I don't want anything."
"You're going to make yourself some toast, you're going to sit at this table, and you're going to fucking eat it."
His jaw clenched with frustration, but he didn't object. "Right." He stood and moved over to a cupboard.
I watched his buttocks ripple within the snug confines of his boxers as he moved around the kitchen to silently make my breakfast.
I stood and moved to make myself a cup of tea, but I also made him one, because I'm nice like that.
Given its simplicity, breakfast wasn't long in coming, and after a few minutes, I was sat at the table with two uninspiring slices of toast before me, both of which possessed the consistency and colour of slate tiles.
As I spread margarine on the toast, Connor slammed his own plate onto the table opposite me.
He came toward me for his cup of tea, which I had placed beside my own, where I was sitting at the breakfast table.
As he picked it up and moved away I said quietly, "and where do you think you're going?"
He turned. "What?"
I looked up at him. "I said, where do you think you're going?"
"I'm...going to sit down?"
"Did I tell you to sit down?"
"Are you supposed to?"
I sighed. "You're not getting this, are you? Put that cup down, back where it was, get your plate, and bring it over here."
Connor huffily slammed his cup down, tea spilling over onto the table as he did so, and picked up his plate from the other side of the table, and walked back, putting it down to one side, near the vacant chair closest to me.
After scraping margarine and marmalade on my toast, I took his plate from him, and put it beside my own.
I pushed my chair away from the table slightly, put my hands on his muscular, boxered hips and manoeuvred him closer to the table, so he was between me and my 'breakfast'. He frowned with concern as I spun him around so he was facing away from me, and toward the table.
He sighed. "You're not gonna do anything to my arse are you?"
With my hands still on his hips, I brought him down so he was sitting on my left knee, the seam of his arsecrack running along the centre of my trousered thigh.
Surprised at my actions, he leaned forward, so he was sitting on me in a most peculiar fashion with his hands on his knees; almost squatting.
Knowing it'd be bad for his posture -- something which matters a great deal in the Army - I wrapped my left arm around around his wide chest and planted my hand on his manly right pec, so I could pull him back toward me.
He was now leaning against me, unable to stop his legs from spreading and perching on socked tippy-toes (so his bulky but little body could maintain stability whilst perched on my thigh) and inadvertently opening up the entire front half of his short, developed body to my roving hand.
My hand didn't rove just yet, however.
After he'd said, quite predictably, "you're fucking pathetic," I reached for the knife and started spreading margarine on his own toast, followed by a healthy dollop of orange marmalade.
I cut his toast into triangles.
My left arm then returned to its prior position, curled around his flank with my hand planted on his mature pectoral muscle.
With my right I took a bite from my toast, whilst my left gently scratched the fur coating his upper body. I would occasionally twist the tastily erect bullet-like nipple, but generally my hand would just glide against the big boy's bestial chest hair, my fingers luxuriating in the dense strands of manly shag which covered him so completely.
After I had finished one slice of toast, I reached for one of his triangles with the same hand.
I held it up to his mouth for a few, long seconds, my other hand continuing to soothingly scratch and stroke the centre of his sternum. Eventually, I heard his lungs expel their contents before he meekly dipped his head to take a little bite.
"Good boy," I said, my hand patting him on the chest before slowly scratching lower across the expanse of his rippled chest and down to his ridged stomach.
He proceeded to take another bite of toast.
Neither of us spoke to the other, but the humiliation was clearly affecting him; the big kid was beginning to stink of sticky perspiration, and whenever his mouth was full of toast, he would nervously chomp it down, his lips sticky with butter and marmalade, whilst breathing heavily through his flared nostrils.
The tips of my fingers feathered and fluttered across the lad's hairy stomach, testing the stiffness of the granite muscle located there, and detecting subtle surface quakes from the hyperventilation occurring far beneath the surface.
After a few moments, my hand descended further south, the fingers of my hand making contact with the hardened plastic tube still affixed to his stout, thick willy.
Through his boxers, my fingers glided along the tube, running over the stolid hump at the end before descending further down to cup his far more yielding, sensitively swollen bollocks.
I quietly jiggled and yanked his fattened nuts as I fed him, his legs still lewdly spread, a little bit unable, and a little bit unwilling, to stop me.
But like a true, obtusely proud warrior, there was still some fight in him with his hand rising to take hold of my wrist as I traversed the rugged terrain of his hearty gonads.
"Down," I whispered when I saw his hand move for mine.
"DOWN" I said more loudly, when his hand continued to move, albeit more slowly.
"DOWN!" I said loudest of all when his hand briefly stopped, unsure of how to proceed; his brain eager to do what its told, but also pushed by fear to try and stop me. His hand moved briefly back to his side, but then forward again, torn between the two. Finally, he spoke, not with a tone of defiance, but with one of submission.
"Please mate," he moaned, "it fuckin hurts when I get hard. Please, it fuckin' kills."
"Shall I take it off for you?"
He sighed loudly. "Does everything have to be so fuckin' gay with you? Just...man, IT HURTS, ok? Just stop fucking hurting me."
I patted his crotch reassuringly. "Okie dokie."
I pull the waistband of his shorts away from his stomach, and hook it behind the lad's hefty, rounded munitions dump beneath his prick; the impressive weight and girth of his sack serving to push his equipment forward and up, as if he were presenting for me.
I keep the fingers of one hand on his sack, tracing the thickly rippled skin and the dark strands which coat it.
With the other, I retrieve the key, and undo his little padlock before his fighting erection can do any more damage, carefully removing the sheath from his organ, his stump once more unsnarling, bouncing and waving merrily, as if celebrating its new-found freedom.
The lad exhaled and looked up at the ceiling in relief.
His cock grows rapidly now it is free, my fingers placing the warm sheath on the table as I reach for more toast. He cranes his neck when I put it close to his mouth, "fuck off," he growls. "I ain't hungry."
"Now come on," I say pleasantly, "you have to finish your breakfast so you can grow up big and strong," the fingers of my other hand continue to deftly roll and massage the snug, drawn-up nutsack between the mature trooper's spread legs.
He sighs and shakes his head, wishing the whole thing would just go away. "Young man, there are children starving in Africa," I say, "now eat it up. Eat, or I'll have to stop doing nice things to your sack, and start doing nasty things to it."
He quickly takes a gigantic bite from the food, in an effort to get the exercise over with quickly.
As he chews, my fingers briefly leave his damp baby-makers so I can take a sip of tea.
Afterwards, I pick up his cup, taking care to ensure my fingers, slick with his ball sweat, don't slip whilst holding the cup, and hold it to his lips. "Drink," I say, "before it gets cold."
He does so, again dipping his head. After a loud slurp, I return the toast to his mouth whilst putting the cup down. After he takes a bite, my hands move to his waistband, and I pull his underwear down. Eager to relieve the tight pressure in his nuts, which he thinks must be down to the waistband,
he lets me slide the shorts past his bum and down his legs, to pool at his feet.
Then, I return my fingers to his fat, blue balls.
"Don't worry," I say reassuringly, chin on his shoulder, observing as his meaty tomahawk missile once more rears up pointing skyward; the crisply defined rim of skin slowly drawing back to reveal a hint of the purple warhead and dark, moist piss-slit within. "It's perfectly natural. Most boys -- like you -- don't think they'll like this sort of thing. But the truth is that they yearn for this level of structure. Crave it. And, after a time, that craving can become so strong, that it becomes a sexual thing."
He gulps. "I don't...yearn...for this sort of thing. I just haven't cum in ages, that's all it is -- it's your sick imagination that thinks I like this."
I give his balls a sharp tug as I kiss his muscular sloped shoulder, a few inches above his colourful Para tattoo.
He flinches, but he doesn't say anything.
"Really," I say dismissively, my fingers now just barely touching his nuts; tickling them, really, only occasionally crooking my fingers into claws, cupping and jiggling the curved orbs within, my sharpened nails the only point of contact with his sensitive nads.
I whisper into his ear, as he sits on my knee with his eyes closed, chewing one last mouthful of toast, "well let's see how things develop, shall we? We have quite a journey ahead of us, and Dorothy hasn't even left Kansas yet."
He had leant forward to eat, as if to get away from the humiliation. Now he was finished, I pulled him back toward me, so he was once more slouching against my own body. With his boxers now lying on the floor, his legs could once more spread apart and his wide feet, still in white ankle socks, were
upright with just his long toes touching the cold linoleum floor, curled in embarrassment.
With my right hand once more on his chest, keeping him in place, my left moved up to his cock, taking the squishy, meaty tube in hand and firmly skinning him back to reveal the plump purple head.
I proceeded to jack him, as if he were an inflatable, oily oil derrick, his easily excitable prick steadily filling with blood and sexual energy as I pumped him.
My right moved from his chest, and slid down through the hairy forest adorning his chest to his embarrassingly aroused, heavily perspiring crotch.
He was surprised when I avoided his beefy organs and instead used my right hand to lift his right leg, at the knee, up to the table. I wedged his knee past the edge of the table and still further up, so his cheek was curving at a 90 degree angle; I prompted him to flatten his leg out, forcing him to put the short limb on the surface of the wooden table. This compelled his grounded left foot to stretch on tippy-toes as his entire right leg was laid out on the table, his long right foot resting at an erect 90 degree angle on the table.
This also opened up his whorish groin still further, enabling me to slide my right hand along the outer edge of his thickly muscled thigh, before sliding across the revealled curve of his arse-cheek where it met his thigh. Stopping when my digits were resting within the sweaty trench behind his balls, my long index finger then ducked into the humid trench of his arse crack.
He jumped, his erect left foot pushing him to stand ever so slightly from my knee -- enough for my finger to slither up the valley of his arse. More animated now, he moved as much as he could, but with his leg wedged on the table, the other balancing his compact frame, and my hand keeping his dick where I wanted it, his room for manoeuvre was critically limited. I shushed him quietly, before saying "now don't ruin it, mate. Don't ruin your big chance to get your life back, eh? That'd be a fuckin' crying shame, wouldn't it? Now, just sit there like a good boy, there we go, such a good boy..." whilst my finger locomoted up his crack with drive and with purpose, stopping only when it ran over the wrinkled, puckering skin of his mucky portal.
After prodding, and making his flinch slightly with a gentle tickle, I slowed my jacking of his now rock hard cock to a crawl whilst my finger, slick with sweat, once more broke through his inner defences, and began worming its way up his insides.
The thigh that adjoined my own tensed and flexed. "Fucker," he spat,
"fuckin queer fucker."
"There we go," I softly intoned in response, "you're doing very well, not long now..."
With my finger now pillaging his sensitive rear-guard, I once more sped up my wanking -- to take him off it all. As sexual fog began to cloud his vision - to twist his pliant mind to my will -- treacherous sap began to bubble and froth from his wide piss slit.
Neither of us speaks; he doesn't object to my finger up his arse, because as his cock is making clear, he kinda likes it. And I don't speak, because I don't fucking need to.
The assertive thumb of my jacking hand carefully smoothes his excitement into the shiny, purple flesh of his glans, the wide dome happy for some liquid sustenance, and me, happy to provide it.
Of his own volition, he leans back against me. It crushes my arse-lodged finger; I wonder if I'll ever see it again; but I don't stop him as the back of his head comes to rest on my lean shoulder.
His eyes are closed, but it is clear he's beginning to understand, as I continue to administer the relief and structure his fit young body needs. "It's ok mate," I whisper, "we're on our own; none of your army mates around. Just lie back and let me take care of you. That's what you want, isn't it? Someone taking charge."
The tell-tale schloping sound of loose, moist foreskin soon comes to dominate the kitchen as my hand strokes him whilst my fingers, numb but still somehow responsive, root around inside him.
His big foot curls as I jack him, a barometer of how close he is to orgasm. "Keep going, Corp. Such a good boy. You're close, aren't you? Of course you are; I know, don't worry. You don't have to say. I wonder if you're gonna cum big today, eh? I bet you will. You've been carrying around that nice big load in yer nuts all week, right? That's what you'll blame it on, no doubt. And ya' know what? Because we're such fucking good mates now, I'll even smile, and nod, and agree, as if I'm saying 'yep, that's what it was; that's why you shot more gloop then you've ever shot before; it was nothing to do with me, it was all because of that dangerous buildup downstairs.' But we both know you'll cum big, Corp, because you love this. And that's fine. I'll never make you talk about it; never make you confront it; we'll just accept it, and deal with it. That's what the big silent type like you would want, right Corp? I think I'll draw up a rota for when you can cum whilst your not on deployment. That'd be handy, wouldn't it? Yeah. We'd all know where we stand then; you'll have something to look forward too. And come the big day, you can come over to my house -- so we're nice and private, and sit on my knee whilst I make you cum. You'd like that. And if you're an especially good boy -- if you've mowed the lawn for me, or washed my car, say; well, we can sit in the living room, and I'll put some girlie porn on the TV whilst I dull the ache in yer nuts for a while, eh? Maybe I'd suck the spunk right out of 'em. That'd be a nice treat, eh? I like sucking on your nuts, Corp. Bet you don't get that back at Camp Bastion. But it can only be for a special treat; I don't want you getting used to it. Can you picture it, mate? Hehe. Of course you can picture it. You're picturing it right now; that's why your cock just got even harder. Yeah, you're gonna cum big today. A foot? Two feet? Is that what we reckon? Yeah, I'll say two good, long feet. Here we go, good boy. Such a good, good boy..."
He sits on my knee with his head turned toward me...not a sexual thing -- not to kiss me, or to look longingly into my eyes...his head is down; his eyes, squeezed shut, in an attempt to bury his shame...his face is firmly planted into the comforting warm crux where my shoulder meets my neck, his eyes closed; his lips parted.
Strings of saliva drip onto my shirt, one after another.
I decide to push things forward; Corp is ripe for the plucking, but his mind won't be so completely occupied with the need to breed; his brain won't be rebooting forever.
I need to move on.
My right index finger prods and pops the sexual grenade deep within him. Explosive concussions ripple through him causing his bulky, compact body to quiver, as though in the midst of an excruciatingly gratifying orgasmic fit; his right foot extends as far as it can, lifting slightly off the table as salvo after salvo of jellied white lightening erupts from his hot semi-automatic, the first landing with a steaming splat on the breakfast table. After the first all-encompassing squirt, his foot drops back onto the table, and curls up into a white ball of pained release as each successive shot of spunk is fired into the air; pearled viscous flecks of him drizzling the table, before a final few spurts flow lazily from his flagging cock, dribbling down to his own nut sack and the floor.
We remain stationary for a moment as the well-exercised soldier catches his breath, drenched in his own uncontrollable shame.
"Two feet. I'm very proud of you, Corporal. Very proud indeed. Now up you get, good boy," my hand leaves his dick so I can return both his feet to the floor, before pushing him up so he is standing, albeit shakily, on his big, athletic feet.
He plants his hands on the table to steady himself, and remains there as I slowly remove my finger from his delicate colon.
As I do this, I observe through his short little legs one last pearl of brave Brit batter gathering at the tip of his deflating prick, now pointing in a southerly direction. As it imperceptibly grows in size, it looks more and more tantalising.
As I watch, I lick my lips, and I gulp noisily.
By the time my finger has extricated itself from his depths, the drop of thick army protein has begun its own patrol, the unctuous blob now an inch beneath his prick, attached by an ever weakening string of syrupy liquid.
Quickly falling to my knees, I kiss the rear interior of his left thigh before shoving my head between his legs to stick my tongue out, so the tasty dollup can safely descend into the wet embrace of my tongue. Savouring the rich, musky, murky taste of the paratrooper's vintage dressing, I then follow the delicate string up to its source, taking the warm, rounded head, now mostly sheathed in a comfort blanket of peach-coloured skin, into my mouth. I proceed to lightly suckle on it from behind, using my teeth to gently pull both scented nozzle and meaty hose back over his nuts and through his legs, so my head is now directly placed between his spread, muscular squaddie-boy thighs, both of which are pressing down on either side of my head.
As I feed, the malodorous, offensively fiery stench of his deep-rooted taint wafts down to my nose from above. My hands are on his bum; keenly massaging the cheeks for him, and keeping him from moving too much.
He learns to stand there, socked toes curling like a hawk's talons, enduring the pain of my suctioning mouth on his sensitive prick tip as I slurp up the remnants of the straight lad's subcutaneous protein-rich gravy, juicy morsels of which still coats his inner tubing.
After what feels like a few moments, but which might have been a few minutes, I lean back and stand up again, my tongue briefly slobbering over his crack on the way up.
I push my groin into his backside as I lean into him, pinning him to the table.
"Is...is the game over now, Sir? Please..."
I lean over him, putting my hands on his own, still on the table. I plant a small kiss on his shoulder as I whisper back, "do you want the game to be over, Corp?"
"...w-what? Nn-I mean, y-yeah, please..."
I smile as I plant another kiss behind the shell of his cute little ear. "You sound a little unsure of yourself, Corp."
"It's fine, Corp. Don't worry about it. I know what it's like; I get it. It's fine. I'm discrete, Corp; no one'll ever have to know. Not your girlfriend, not mum, not dad...it can be just between us, 'k? Yeah. Like I say, we'll setup a rota. A system. That's what we need...that's what you need, Corp. Something...set. Something...rigid. It's what all boys need, Corp...without it, well, they just don't grow up right, do they? And I know we can come up with a system which you'll respect, Corp...something fair; judicious....I know how it is. It's about balance, Corp...bollocks full enough so you still have spark to get up in the morning, but not so full that you lose focus..."
"N-n, Sir, please..."
"Now, now, now, Corp. Don't start with that again. I don't mind being discrete, but we really must get over this 'no' business. You like this, remember? We both know you like it. Remember when you spunked a few minutes ago? I thought you were gonna pass out, Corp...and remember when I got on my knees so I could worship your hot little bod for a bit at the start?
Felt pretty awkward, didn't it...but you'd like me to do it again, hehe. Yeah, you like it. Imagine if I did that again for ya? Made you cum like that, I mean...I can, you know...I can do it whenever I want. And I will, won't I, Corp? I will, because you'll let me."
"You go back on deployment this week, so you won't be cumming again before you leave. But ya' know what you're gonna do, Corp? For a week and a half before you come back, you ain't gonna touch yourself. You're just gonna let it build, and build. So yer nuts get all tingly and ripe. And I ain't gonna tell you to do it; I ain't gonna checkup on you to make sure you do it. You're just gonna do it, because the guy who runs yer family jewels for ya wants you to. The flight back on those C-130's can get pretty rocky, right? That's good. All that turbulence, jigglin and shakin yer sack, keeping you good and hard for me. And you know what's gonna happen when you come back, Corp? You'll say hello to mum, and to dad, and to the little lady - bless her, and then you'll say hello to me. You'd like that, won't you?"
I ground my trousered dick against his naked muscular ass, as he looked down at my hand moving over his own hand. "Ya know, you looked very dashing in your army combats, Corp. I'll get you wearing those a lot more often from now on. I like 'em, cos they're so easy to get off you. No fiddly
buttons or zips...yep, soon as you're back, I'll have 'em round yer ankles whilst I soothe that itch for ya...suck that tingle right out of yer hairy nuts."
Our fingers begin to entwine. "Hehe. Ya' look scared, Corp. Don't be scared. It's our secret, remember? I'll make sure no one ever finds out. The perfect crime. You can do all your macho bullshit out in public, then we'll go upstairs -- separately, of course -- and whilst everyone's busy drinking and laughing downstairs, I'll give you a good scrubdown...get that mucky uniform off you, fill up the bath with hot, soapy water, and we can spend half an hour just scrubbing that desert right off you...that sand must get everywhere, huh...behind your nails...in yer chest hair...behind yer foreskin. Yeah, I'll get you nice and clean alright. You won't have to do a fuckin' thing, Corp; just sit there, and let my tongue do all the work. Yeah. No blackmail bullshit; no threats. Just...a system. A system you hate yourself for loving. A system that'll make your toes curl every time you cum. You want that, right?"
The silence is deafening.
Leaning forward into his neck, I take in one last, deep breath of him; of the stale stink of fear rising off him. "I'm gonna fuck you now, Corp."
"NnnOO, please, fuck, please no, please...."
"But Corp," I say sympathetically, "I want to. Don't you understand? I want to, and you wanna do what I wanna do, so that's what's gonna happen. Understand? See what I'm saying?"
"I-I-I don't want to!"
I chuckle lowly. "Then why don't you stop me, Corp? Why don't you use those big muscles to kick the shit out of me?"
"T-t-the videos, t-t-the g-game-"
"The Game?! Please. Your insulting me again. Don't insult me again, Corp. This is not about a game, fuckwit. This is, and always was about you. About you, and your fucking dick. Don't you get it? You're so fucking obvious, Corp. It's so obvious, what gets you off; what you think about when your jacking yourself in Helmand; just like its obvious it's the one thing you don't get. 'Game'...please. That was just a device, Corp – like your little cage over there. A device to compel you to confront it all; for you to figure out what it's really after; what it craves, and to understand that only another man can deliver that. Girls...mate, it's fine to be attracted to girls, ok? And that's why you're straight -- because you like tits, not dicks. But don't you understand? They'll never give you what you want. Oh sure, they bitch and moan for equality and emancipation, but women just want big strong guys like you to cuddle them, and love them, and fuck them senseless. No, you can keep liking your girls, mate -- but I'm gonna be the one giving you that drug you need; those heavy cums."
I pull down my zip. "Hehe. Oh, your brain doesn't like it. I know that, Corp. I mean, what man's brain would? But your dick does. Your dick fuckin' loves it, Corp -- can't get enough. And I think we know who wins in the battle between your brain and your bell-end, right?" I chuckle. "That's why you're getting hard again already. Don't bother denying it, Corp; I'll looking at your prick right now. Yeah. You're so fucking obvious mate. But you don't have to worry; because you've been figured out, and now, the real fun begins. And the real fun begins, with a fuck."
He goes to say something, but I continue speaking and he shuts up immediately, no longer able to question my authority. "Shall we do it here, Corp?"
Silence; a sniffle.
"No, best not. Wouldn't want you having flashbacks when you're in here with Dad, having your last breakfast before heading off to base, eh? The hardon would be pretty difficult to explain...no, let's head upstairs, Corp."
I move to go upstairs.
We move into his bedroom, and I sit on the bed as he moves behind me. I admire the posters decorating his room -- various leather-glad females draped over motorbikes.
"You like leather, huh? Um...girls, in leather, I mean?"
"No!" he says defensively, the evidence plastered all over his walls.
"It's cool," I say, looking at them. "Explains a lot."
He says nothing, instead looking around, and moving to draw the curtains one hand covering his half hard rod and rapidly recuperating nuts.
"Leave the curtains where they are," I say.
"B-but people'll see..."
"I live over the road. Only I'd see. And I'm here, with a far better view, aren't I? Leave the curtains where they are." I stand. "Get into bed."
"Something wrong with your fuckin' ears, Corp? Yes, into bed, right now."
"Erm, ok, um, Sir."