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Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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This is a true story, as told to me by an Army buddy. The names, places, etc. have been changed.

“Just keep your underwear on, son. Don’t take off any more than that, and you’ll stay out of trouble.” My father told me that when I was seven or eight, when he caught my cousin and me “playing with each other.” Never forgot that. Even in the years when I didn’t want to stay out of trouble.

I grew up in the early Sixties, my father in the Navy, stationed a long time in Japan, so I got into martial arts from a very early age. By the time we came back to the States, I was a teenaged blackbelt. My father retired and settled down near a large Midwestern city, and I attended a dojo there, developing my self-defense skills even more.

The US Army drafted me, and when the Army discovered my skills in self-defense, I found myself in training roles, teaching other guys the karate routines. I ended up as a trainer in a Basic Training fort on the west coast.

Something about me, a minor detail: my hair started to turn gray when I was, what, about 17. From the time I started shaving, I always looked older than I really was. When young, I thought gray in my hair was cool. I could buy beer for my teenaged friends.

I liked California, and I liked the Army. America was at peace at the time, and I ended up as a career soldier. I got married, settled down, looking forward to retirement from the Service.

Never could quite adjust to married life, though. Don’t know why. Seemed like something was missing—but I couldn’t say what. This wasn’t exactly it, but the sex was never what I thought it would be. Somehow I thought the sex act was supposed to be thrilling. And she didn’t seem to like it, which was not much of a compliment.

I think she thought of me as something “older and wiser” when she married me, and learning I was just a guy, not a father figure, she mentally washed her hands of me. Married life grew worse and worse, and finally we divorced.

I breathed a big sigh of relief. I was sick of marriage. Something itched at me—I couldn’t tell what—but being married to her didn’t scratch it. I settled down as a bachelor soldier and went on with life in the Army and my hand-to-hand combat training.

With a lot more time on my own, I began to think about things previously shoved to the back of my mind. One of those back-burner things was the sneaky little urge to look at the men in the shower rooms. Always needed to sneak just a little peek at the men in there—not that I was hot for them or anything—maybe just because it was “wrong.”

But what’s wrong with seeing a naked man? Under the uniform, you’re a naked man, too. Yeah, that was right, but I kept a tight rein on myself—nothing more than an offhand look. Nothing but major trouble with anything more. Just keep your underwear on, son.

But I had to admit it: as time went by, my jack-off fantasies (hey, no wife, I wasn’t into whores, what was I supposed to do?) for as much as they started off with a naked woman, almost always went back to the wrestling pits and the men, putting my hands on them, feeling their hard muscles, smelling their sweat, pitting my strength against theirs.

And the showers. Naked men. Cocks. Sweat. Balls. Hairy chests. With thoughts like those and my heart thumping, I could shoot a good gob almost across my barracks room.

Right after I was divorced, the post did not have space for me in the bachelor enlisted men’s quarters, and although my rank merited it, I agreed to a private room in the troop barracks. Why I did that, I wasn’t exactly sure, but I got a funny twinge in my balls when I thought of a barracks full of naked men lined up to shower in the mornings. I tried to tell myself that wasn’t the primary reason I agreed to a barracks room.

But I worried that it was. The more time went by, the more I made sure I went to the showers at the most crowded times and the more I noticed the men in their underwear.

Jockstraps. I loved jockstraps. White ribbed cloth over the guy’s package; thin, sexy straps hugging his buns, and that wide, stretchy waistband hugging his lower belly like grasping hands.

Grasping hands? Where in hell did you get that? Are you developing into some sort of queer?

No, no I’m not! Damn, I’ve got to get stuff like that out of my head! I’m not a homo. And god knows it would ruin my military career!

In my daily job in the hand-to-hand combat sand pits, through, showing throws, blows, and blocks to the trainees, I sometimes chuckled to myself. If only these guys knew I’m flipping them so they land on their backs, skidding away from me, their legs up in the air — so I can look down the legs alsancak escort of their athletic trunks!

Jockstraps. My days consisted of tossing strong, healthy men into the sand and glancing at their jockstraps. I wasn’t queer. I just liked … underwear. And I kept mine on. Never without it. I was straight. Keep your underwear on, son!

It was a living. Like I said, I kept a tight rein on myself (even before the divorce), and my days consisted only of teaching karate, cleaning my barracks room, drinking beer, going to the on-post movies … and jacking off nearly every day.

And one day I realized I wasn’t young anymore. After 20 years in the Army, I was 40. I could retire as a Master Sergeant if I wanted to. And my white hair had become legitimate. I was an “old guy.”

All I knew was the Army, though, so I stayed in past my 20, keeping my eyes open for anything “on the outside,” but not very encouraged. As an unmarried master sergeant, I could have demanded bachelor quarters, but what the hell, I liked the room in the troop barracks, and the Army liked to have seasoned sergeants in the barracks to maintain control over the young yahoos. And with my white hair and white mustache, many young soldiers looked up to me as some sort of senior statesman.

Then one day it happened: a training class in martial arts self-defense techniques featured the usual thing—one guy after another hitting his back in front of me with a brief glimpse of the white mesh of his jockstrap. But in one guy’s crotch, I saw a flash of red. Red?? My first thought was, blood! But it wasn’t blood.

A red jockstrap! The guy was wearing a bright red jockstrap! That was not regulation. The Army passed out an athletic uniform to every man—white T-shirt that read “ARMY,” a pair of black athletic trunks, a pair of athletic shoes, and a jockstrap.

At first I thought I would call the soldier on it, give him a scolding, and either send him back to the barracks to change into military uniform or make him do push-ups where we stood—but then, hell, it was hardly a mutinous act, and explaining exactly how I knew he wore a red jockstrap could turn the tables on me. I let it go.

Good looking guy, though. Let’s see, this is Company F. Maybe I’ll drop in to the Company F barracks tomorrow morning while the men are showering. I could be there to ask their sergeant something about hand-to-hand scheduling.

Nah, that’s more trouble than it’s worth. You don’t know what platoon he’s in, and you would probably look in the wrong shower room. Yeah, true. A flash of his red jockstrap was about all I would get from Johnny Trainee or whatever his name was.

At day’s end, I trudged back to my barracks. Another day in the Army. I went to the formation to hear the assignments for the following week. A few other sergeants were setting up a poker game for later on. Maybe I’d go, maybe not.

In the end, it was Not. I went back to my room, turned on the little TV, and sat back with a pizza. I was scribbling some notes on my clipboard, the 8:00 o’ clock movie had just started, and I heard a knock at the door. Now what? I walked over and opened it.

There stood a young soldier in PT uniform—well built (over 200 pounds, at least six feet tall), probably a trainee. But he didn’t have that deer-in-the-headlights uncertainty of a new soldier. In fact, he slouched in the doorway with an unconcerned, almost smart-ass expression. I figured he was a clerk or something from the headquarters office. “What can I do for you?’

“Captain Artol wants to get a record of the hand-to-hand training for Company F today.” He had a deep voice. I like guys with a good, bass sound. Big balls.

No, you’re not thinking about balls, asshole! Get military!

“I gave it to your sergeant,” I said. “I don’t remember his name.” I liked this guy. His face was familiar. Company F? I probably saw him in the hand-to-hand pits.

“Sorry, Sarge, when everybody got back to the company, they couldn’t find it. He asked me to get another one from you.”

Shit. That means I’ve got to recopy all those scores onto another report sheet. “All right,” I grumbled, “c’mon in.”

He walked in behind me, walking very close. I could almost feel his breath on the back of my neck. “You might as well sit down and watch TV,” I said. “This will take me a few minutes.” I sat down at my desk on the other side of the room, and the GI sat on the bunk behind me to watch TV. I got my paperwork out and started copying down names and scores on my clipboard.

After a few minutes: “Sarge, you mind if I take my shirt off? It’s damned hot in here.”

That’s odd. I don’t altıeylül escort think it’s hot at all. Maybe he’s from northern Minnesota or Maine or something—not used to California’s climate. “I don’t mind. Make yourself comfortable.”

I glanced back. The GI stood and stripped off his T-shirt and dropped it on my bunk. Nice chest. Hairless. Wonder if he shaves it. Nice pecs. Six-pack belly. This guy works out with weights. I glanced down and spotted a slice of his underwear over the waistband of his shorts. I’ll be` damned! Red! The guy with the red jockstrap!

“Where you from, soldier?” I made my voice friendly.
“Arizona. Town south of Phoenix.”

Ah-hah, he can’t be uncomfortable in this heat. I got a very powerful feeling in my guts, down around my balls, and my cock started to harden. Don’t be an asshole! The kid’s probably sick and is just feeling warm, got a fever or something. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“Barthan, Sarge. Darryl Barthan.”

I don’t know why, but for some reason I thought that was a sexy name. In my frame of mind, though, I would’ve thought Oglethorpe Mudflap was a sexy name.

Barthan sat down again, and I turned back to my desk, scribbling away, head down, trying not to think of the half-naked man behind me, then I heard my bunk springs as he got up again. Barthan was no longer sitting watching TV. I didn’t look up. I kept working. As horny as I was, I was also a little nervous. Barthan had no idea what was going through my head, and I knew what the Army did to men caught in “conduct unbecoming a soldier.”

“Sarge.” Soft voice, very deep…and husky…and somehow commanding! Somehow a summons. I stood up and bumped against him . He stood behind me very close. Very close.

We stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. His burned into me, powerful, deep brown, hypnotic. Knowing. Commanding. He turned toward me, still very, very close. I tried to say something, but all that came out was a nervous clearing of my throat. I dropped my clipboard, and almost accidentally, our arms reached out, and we touched each other.

And his face moved closer.

Ohmigod!

His lips came forward, and although my mind urged me to pull back, I was numb. DO SOMETHING, ASSHOLE! HIT HIM!! I stumbled back, but he followed me. I fell back against my bunk, and still he followed me. I raised my hand, weakly, and he seized it in his own. Then I felt his lips.

Oh, my God, you’re kissing a MAN!!

I was thunderstruck. Dumbfounded. But I couldn’t struggle away as another man’s lips moved caressingly over mine, his tongue dabbing at my lips. Against my will, my mouth opened, his tongue thrust into me, and my own tongue slithered out to meet it.

Shivers and goose-bumps spread all over me, and the bulge between my legs throbbed, a demanding force. The hands I raised to push him away instead reached out to grasp Barthan’s shoulders, and he put his arms around me.

I finally managed to pull back from the kiss, but Barthan kept after me, painting my face with slow, sensual kisses and soft licks here and there–my eyelids, my cheekbones, my forehead. And—oh, god–I couldn’t fight him. Again I surrendered, and once more my mouth connected to the furnace behind his lips. I was drunk. Dizzy from inhaling the musky smell of a sweaty man.

His hands tugged at my T-shirt…and I let him pull it up. He released me from the kiss. “It’s hot in here for you, too, Sarge. Let’s get comfortable.” And he pulled my shirt off over my head.

I fell back, lightheaded, momentarily seeing stars. Motherfuck! I just kissed a man! He reached down to grab the waistband of my shorts. “C’mon, Sarge,” he said in that low, seductive voice, “get naked for me. You know you want to.”

What? What in hell is he talking about?? Why in hell would I want to get naked for him?? But I didn’t struggle. I let him pull down my shorts.

As he pulled them down over my hips, and with them my jockstrap, I sucked in my breath. For hell’s sake, wait! Don’t!! You’re going to get naked for him?? What’s happening? What is HAPPENING TO ME?? I can’t let this dumb sonofabitch take my pants down! My underwear! Gotta keep my underwear on!!

Just keep your underwear on, son, and you’ll stay out of trouble!” My father’s words roared in my brain!

But he pulled them down and off. Both. My shorts and my jockstrap at once. My dong stuck out like a salami.

As he pulled them down over my shoes, my body burned hotter than the desert outside. You dumb old bastard, you’re naked, wearing nothing but sneakers and your dogtags. And look at you! You’re standing before a guy who still has altınordu escort his pants on! Suddenly I was scared. If Barthan turned out to be an asshole, he could get me thrown out of the Army. Maybe 20 years in the stockade. Oh my god, what has come over me??

But before I could make a move or even think what to do, his voice murmurred in my ear. “You liked my red jockstrap, didn’t you, Sarge. I saw you staring at me out in the wrestling pits.” I looked into his eyes. He’s got me. He knows me. Damn, this young kid has the straight flush here, and I’m playing with a pair of twos.

“I’d like to see you in a red jockstrap, Sarge,” The Voice went on. “I brought one over with me.” With that, he pulled a wadded-up ball of red webbing out of his pocket. “Put it on,” he said. It was a command. “You’ll like it.”

Hey, yeah, that’s it! I’ll get some underwear on again! I’ll be safe!! I put my feet through the straps and pulled it up.

Ohmigod!! The red pouch slid up over my cock and balls with a wet, schlucking sound, slathering my groin with some warm, mucky slime. Astonished, I looked over at him. “Yeah, Sarge,” he grinned, “I jacked off in it before I came over here. How’s the feel of my sperm around your balls?”

His sperm! I’ve got his jizz over my cock and balls! And suddenly it was like molten lava. From the furnace of his scrotum! It was Tabasco sauce over my cock and balls, and I was on fire between my legs. “Hot,” I croaked.

He reached over and hefted my balls through the mesh. My cock was an iron bar bulging out the pouch. I had never been so horny. One stroke on my dick, and I would have cummed all over myself.

Get a grip on yourself!! This has got to end! It’s not too late!

But while he groped my crotch, giving me an almost alcoholic buzz of lust, with his other hand, he yanked down his own shorts and jock.

My jaw dropped as a bare-ass naked young man, Army-hardened, healthy, and aroused stood before me. What a sight. Big pecs. Big, brown nipples. Six-pack belly. Innie belly-button.

And he’d stripped off his underwear. A magnificent cock twitched proudly between his legs, its uncut head begging to slide out from its hood. My mouth watered.

Barthan looked at me with a strange expression. Waiting.

He’s waiting? For what? Am I supposed to do something here? What does he want? –Barthan dropped his hands to his hips and thrust his groin forward. And suddenly I knew.

My heart pounding and breathing harder, with every ounce of strength I had, I forced myself to say, “That’s enough, Private. Put your clothes back on and leave my room!” I stood watching him, trembling. And I could actually feel my cock spurting out pre-cum.

But he didn’t move. He just grinned at me, and I couldn’t keep my eyes from wandering all over that hot, handsome, beckoning young body. When I noticed him staring at my crotch, though, I glanced down to see for myself and saw a long, silvery string of pre-cum actually hanging from the bulge in the jism-slimed red jockstrap I had put on. Oh, shit!

“C’mon, Sarge,” he said softly. “You’re standing there drooling pre-cum through another man’s jockstrap. The door’s locked behind us. You know you want to.”

What? He locked the door? Ah, when I sat at the desk. God, look at that cock! I see his pre-cum, too.

On fire with lust, drunk like never before, I dropped to my knees. I reached up and touched the underside of the big cock, and he moved it closer, inches from my face, grown to full size. God, how big IS that? Nine? Ten? Eleven?

His voice: “Go ahead, Sarge, it’s ok.”

No, God, I can’t do this!! My mouth parted a little, and my tongue wet my lips. “Sargeant,” he said more firmly,” Do it!” The Command Tone in his voice broke through my hesitation. Staring at the slight drop of pre-cum on the tip, glistening and beckoning to me, I stuck out my tongue and tasted it then wriggled under his foreskin, explored his cockhead, slipping into his piss hole, exploring, tasting, seeking more pre-cum.

I watched in awe as his big cockhead slid slowly and seductively out of the hood of his foreskin as his arousal grew. Then he grabbed my head and guided it into his crotch and onto his cock. My jaws wowed out huge as the big thing entered my mouth. He forced in about four inches, but when I gagged slightly, he pulled my head back.

“Relax, Sarge,” he crooned, “you know you want to suck this big cock all the way down your throat, and I’ll show you how.”

He pushed forward again, and I took his cock into my mouth, giving in to the experience, trying to relax. The bulging cockhead rubbed against the roof of my mouth. My lips tightened around it, a donut of my skin, and he stretched the hole wider.

“Yeahhh, Sarge,” he said in that low voice. “You like cock, don’t you?” Lust drunk, I shook my head up and down as much as I could, and he stuffed more of it into my mouth. “You want to suck my cock, Sarge? If you do, you gotta swallow my cum.”

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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