Plantation Road
by Nick Stark
nickstarkusmc@hotmail.com
Chapter 1
As the Marine Captain twisted his upper body to help the recruit on with his heavy pack, the material of his skintight olive green tank top stretched tight across his chest. Even with them smeared with Vaseline and covered with band aids, his nipples still hurt like hell from the abuse they'd taken last night. As soon as the last of the recruits were geared up and on their way, he could strip to the waist and see if wearing no shirt for a while helped them heal. He would have a few hours to himself between sending the young jarheads on their way, and meeting up with them at the rendezvous.
"Thanks, Sir" said Davison, the young hunk that the Captain had been helping on with his pack. Davison turned to face his tough Captain, nodding and acknowledging that he was ready to move out. "At ease Davison, til the others are geared up and ready." "Yessir" was the quick reply. Captain Stark turned his attention to the next man, assembling his gear rather clumsily. Davison's eyes stayed on Captain Stark as he knelt down to help Kowalski, the overweight polack who was the joke of the unit. Stark was everything Davison wanted to be. Big, muscular, confident, take-no-shit attitude, tough but fair. Davison had joined the Corps to turn himself into what Stark was. He was from Ames, Iowa, and despite the heat and humidity of southern Louisiana, he loved every minute of what he was learning and doing down here. He slept soundly, awoke refreshed at reveille, soaked up what he was being taught, reveled in the tough building of his body. He had already firmed up his gut and packed on muscle across his chest and shoulders. Captain Stark had even taken to acting as a trainer to Davison in the base gym. Stark wore old ripped up tee shirts to lift in, and Davison often caught glimpses of his big hairy muscled pecs, which inspired him to push himself harder. Davison rested his weight, now considerably heavier from the pack strapped to his shoulders, on one leg, and waited patiently.
Stark was helping Kowalski sort out his kit. Something Kowalski should have easily been able to do on his own, as the others had. Davison looked up and locked eyes with DeRossi, both of whom gave a smirk that said `good thing we have our shit together'. DeRossi was ready for Stark's inspection, knowing full well it would be cursory, as was Davison's. Stark would do little more than poke around in his pack, nod, and help heft the heavy load to DeRossi's strong back. DeRossi was from Brooklyn, a tough inner city Italian, who joined the Corps to escape the confining feeling he got in the big city, and to use his street honed body and fighting skills for a paycheck and a future. DeRossi could have been Stark's brother; both had jet black hair, thick 5 o'clock shadow, bodies that easily bulked up, chests and hard stomachs covered in thick dark hair. DeRossi was maybe a bit leaner than Stark, and an inch shorter.
Finally Kowalski was ready. He stumbled as Stark helped him secure the pack straps over his shoulders. The fabric of his camouflage shirt stretched across his gut. What little extra weight Davison and DeRossi had had when boot camp started had long since melted away. Not so with Kowalksi. His short and squat body would never have the lean grace and beauty of a fit man. The rumor was that he was some Congressman's nephew or something, else he would long since have been rooted out.
Stark moved on to DeRossi, and finished with him in quickly. After the pack was on his back, DeRossi turned to nod his acknowledgement to Stark. The two men locked eyes, Stark's expression not betraying anything. All the men knew that the unit was top notch except for Kowalski, why dwell on it. Stark certainly wouldn't acknowledge it. Everyone had heard the stories about the covert operations that Stark had successfully completed over the years. He knew his shit and led with conviction; the combination made him a top notch trainer of the young recruits.
Stark turned at last to the final member of his four man team. Quinn was your typical blond from California, 5'11" lean and tan, naturally broad shoulders, pretty blue eyes. He was young and naïve compared to Davison and DeRossi, but he definitely had his shit together. Quinn always had an open look on his face, as if he were waiting for orders. That made him a good marine. It had also, over the course of basic training, turned him into Captain Stark's boy. Noone had a clue, but Stark was deep drilling Quinn every night; and each morning Quinn snuck into Stark's office to blow his superior officer. Quinn got up early, showered, shaved, put on his uniform, then used his key to let himself into Stark's quarters. Most mornings Stark was already up, sitting in his skivvies at his desk doing paperwork before showering. Without a word Quinn would come around the side of the Captain's desk and sink to his knees. Stark would scoot his chair back to give the Private some space, then he would lay back comfortably while Quinn pulled the elastic of Stark's briefs down below his cock and balls. As Quinn's head bobbed up and down on the Captain's hardon, Stark would alternate between gripping and rubbing Quinn's head, working his own thick tits, and raising his arms to smell his pits. Usually after about 8 or 10 minutes of constant servicing, Stark would tense up, push down hard on his firm belly, and blow his pent up load down Quinn's throat. Quinn's neck would convulse as he struggled to take all of Captain Stark's load. He knew he had to swallow it all, that was the rule. After he lapped the last drips of semen off Stark's cockhead, he replaced his Captain's equipment in his briefs, then stood at ease to await orders, hands behind his back. His own cock would always be hard, but strapped down in the jockstrap that Stark required him to wear. Usually Stark would tell him when he was to report in that night, then turn his attention back to his paperwork with a quick nod and a "Dismissed." Quinn would mumble "Yessir" quietly and exit the room, his emotions a tumble of confusion. He wanted release desperately even though he knew that wasn't allowed, but more than that he wanted some recognition, some affection from the big Captain, some glimmer that all this meant something to the man that Quinn worshipped, that he wasn't just a convenient piece of ass to fuck. Quinn's mind always envisioned a young guy in each class of recruits that Stark used in the same sexual manner, to be sent packing upon graduation. Some mornings Quinn even cried, but he knew he would show up as ordered that night, strip down to his jockstrap, and bite the pillow for the Captain to mount him. For some reason Stark had taken full control of his body and he had no will, and if he admitted it to himself no desire, to be anywhere else but by this man's side. Several weeks before, Stark had given Quinn one glimmer of hope, and that was enough to keep the boy coming back. Quinn was face down on the bed, clad only in his jockstrap as ordered. After Stark had used his knee to kick Quinn's legs wide, and used his strong hands to part Quinn's hard asscheeks, he had as usual sunk in deep and slow. After a few minutes of thrusting in and out, as usual Quinn had already shot his load into the pouch of his jockstrap. But then as Stark was getting close, he sunk all the way in, laid down full on top of Quinn, his chest hair rough on Quinn's smooth back, and as he approached climax he gripped Quinn's shoulders in his strong hands and planted a long wet rough kiss on Quinn's neck, the Captain's chin like sandpaper but Quinn loving the feel of it. The kiss brought Quinn's emotions and need to the surface; he gasped and whimpered slightly. After that, the Captain dismounted and wiped off his cock as usual, not revealing anything else about his feelings for Quinn. He knew Quinn wanted more, but he wasn't done molding him yet. If Quinn could withstand what was yet to come, he knew he would be the marine, the boy, and the lover that Stark desired.
Captain Stark was squatting down, rifling through Quinn's pack. The other three marines stood ready to move out. Quinn looked down at the thick thighs, broad shoulders, huge arms, and thick glossy dark hair of the man he was falling in love with. Stark was all man; who would guess he liked taking men to bed instead of women? Quinn tried hard to be distracted as he watched the Captain's handsome face as he surveyed the contents of Quinn's pack. Finding everything in order, Stark stood up, grasping the heavy pack in one hand, keeping his legs apart for balance. "Turn around," he said, and Quinn complied. Stark slid the pack onto Quinn's back, and the blond shrugged it into position easily. Not as heavily muscled as DeRossi, he was definitely stronger than he looked. He was basically a blond copy of Davison.
Stark stood back a pace or two and called the men in close, while he pulled a map from his pocket. "OK men, here's the drill. I'm sure you're wondering what the hell you're doing out here at crack of dawn in heavy packs." The levee of the Mississippi River was to their left, and lush green fields to their right. In the distance upriver were the huge tanks of a petrochemical facility. About fifty yards up the road was a sign indicating the access road to one of the antebellum plantations that were huge draws for tourists in the spring and fall. It was a strange dichotomy that the genteel plantations of the 19th century now rubbed shoulders with the unsightly machinery of the oilfields. Over a dozen of the old plantation houses were open to the public, long since turned into museums, the land sold off and farmed by huge conglomerates. Only two of the plantations were still owned by their original builders, the families holding onto them through the centuries. One of these was still farmed, with the farm income supplemented by house tours in the pleasant months. The land on the other plantation was known to lie fallow, with the front gates locked tight. Noone knew what went on inside, or the source of the owner's income. Rumor had it that the family had been in the slave trade before the Civil War, and that the money, long banked in New Orleans, still generated enough profit to keep the house maintained and pay the taxes.
Stark spread out the map on the hood of the jeep. "I'm dividing you into two teams. It'll be DeRossi with Kowalski, and Davison with Quinn." Stark caught the quick look of irritation on DeRossi's face. "Both teams will start out from here and head this way," Stark indicated on the map. "The rendezvous point is 10 miles upriver, right here," Stark continued. As the 5 men huddled around the map, the image of their broad backs, muscled asses and booted feet was being viewed through a set of binoculars.
...to be continued