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Please send me your ideas. All reasonable suggestions will be considered, especially S & M or B & D; nothing brutal, causing bleeding, permanent injuries, or death. I will not use ideas that feminize men or boys. Copyright 2020 by Edmund Davies (Author) (AKA) Teddy Bare
Taking Down Sergeant Malta Chapter 17, Part 2
"I'm not a faggot, son," I told him, as more of Austin's slimy spunk oozed from my hole and drizzled onto my feet. "I'm a Grade A military man. A distinguished officer. And what's happening here is guy stuff. Guys looking out for each other. Taking care of business. I'm telling you, son, and I hope you're listening: it's time to empty your bladder into my mouth. Do you understand, son? The full contents of it." To assure him he was in good hands, I slowly slid my hands up and down his thighs. They were lightly covered with blond down, his skin soft and velvety to the touch. "You stepped forward and now you need to step up to the plate, lad." Then I turned to the others. "Come on, guys, let's show him how it's done."
This was bravado. A fake out. What did I know about getting pissed on in public by a bunch of my buddies? But I wasn't about to let this halting kid kill the mood. Besides, he was a real cutie-pie, and as he shook his meat it was lengthening into a very alluring fuck stick. Nice set of nuts on him too, and though he was a total stranger, I was seized by an overwhelming desire to reel him in and squeeze the juices out of him. Now you can say what you like about military training. Recruits whine like little girls about it as if it were state sanctioned torture. But it's always there for you. It's your backbone. And if you've had enhanced officers training, as I have, there's nothing you can't bluster your way through. Shoulders back, chest out, chin in. Weakness disgusts me and I learned long ago to never display it. Inexperienced? Don't know shit about what you're doing? Keep it to yourself and no one will be any wiser. It's the cut of your jib, man. What they call the intangibles. That's what matters. The first impression, military-man style.
The piss was flowing now, warm and copious, on my head, chest, back, belly, and thighs. I could feel rivulets of it tingle along my ass crack as I jacked my dick to stiffness. The guys had formed a ring around me, on either side of the kid, and his sparkling stream eventually joined the others and splashed directly into my face. What a great sensation, to be drenched like this by all these virile studs. Direct from their bladders! How intimate is that? I was really bonding with these guys! And some of them were gushing like fire hoses. Such a manly bunch! I turned my head to get a good look. Gorgeous guys! Big muscles and amazing dicks! I raised my arms in the downpour to rinse my hairy pits, my biceps glistening in the wetness.
Color, odor, rate and spread of discharge, I'd never have guessed that piss came in so many varieties. A real smorgasbord, and naturally I was curious about how the stuff would taste. All the different flavors. Of course, all of us tasted piss when we were kids, then spat it out, made faces, and declared how horrible it was. Every kid does that. And there was one joker, or maybe three or four, at my school, a few levels ahead of me, who'd corner me in the showers and get off a good, long, stinking piss on me. You know the type. Troublemakers. Standard issue bullies. Handsome, nice bodies, cocky as can be, flaunting their stuff, firm butts, generous bulges, always talking about where they plan to stick their dicks. The guys who'd stop you dead in your tracks whenever you caught sight of them, struck dumb by their swagger. Probably the first guys in their class to grow hair down there too, so they ruled the roost. When they ordered me to open wide and swallow piss, I swallowed piss. And guess what? It wasn't bad at all. In fact, I kind of looked forward to drinking it. You know, people insist on making a fuss about nothing. And besides, some of those dicks were pretty well developed. Incredible really for high schoolers, fully formed, with sinister heads, already flared and menacing, like a grown man's. So I knew my stuff and wasn't about to let this piss pageant go untasted. Waste not, gentlemen.
"Let's do it, guys," I said. I opened wide and suddenly so many streams were turned toward my gaping maw that they crossed paths and started splattering helter skelter. Foamy runoff spilled from my stretched lips and cascaded down my heated front. Not willing to cede a single drop, I pulled at the corners of my mouth with my index fingers, desperate to enlarge the aperture as I swigged, swilled, and guzzled as much and as quickly as I could. This was not fine dining, not by any means. It was more like an all-you-can-eat buffet, and watching it couldn't have been pretty. Sour and acrid in my throat, the pissy flood stung brightly all the way to my stomach.
"Holy crap, man," someone called out, "he's fucking drinking that shit."
"Look at him. Gonna hit him straight in the eye, man. Watch."
You know how you're always stealing glances when other guys are pissing? Sizing up their meat and thirsty to know how the piss tastes? No wonder doing this with my buddies felt so right. Besides, a boner never lies. And what an unforgettable experience! How often does a straight-up hetero get to be that close to a pissing dick, let alone multiples? So close you actually see the slit flash spring open! Sloppy? Of course it's sloppy, and stinky too. What do you expect? But if this happened as a matter of course, I'd be on my knees at the gym every damned day. Yes, sir. First rate team building for sure, like pickup basketball, or just standing around and sharing a cold beer, only better. More personal. And women have the nerve to complain that guys have no feelings! Well, let's face it, this is something women will never understand. Never in a million years. They just don't get it. For them it's all about tits. Tits, flabby asses, and fucking cunts. Big deal! That's all they can think about. No imagination. No sense of adventure. Have you ever asked yourself why men are the world's greatest artists? The greatest military strategists? It's the power of creative thinking, my friend. Plain and simple. And that's a male trait. A masculine attribute, with a direct line from a man's brain to his glorious testes, his own private sperm factory. And boy, from the looks of things, were we ever going to give those factories some business today!
Their bladders evacuated, one by one all the guys started walking toward the showers. I was still raging hard but the piss party seemed to be over. As they moved away from me, I gawked at their asses, brown, black, white, Asian, some matted thickly with hair, some smooth as peaches, and everything in between. Nothing standard-issue about these guys! So much attitude! I hadn't realized until just now how expressive a butch ass could be. So macho! So forbidden! So enticing! I wanted to bury my nose and tongue deep into every last one of them.
"Hey! Piss pig!" It was Tyrone. He had turned and called out to me. "Get yo' pussy ass in here, cocksuck'r. Think I'm'a fuck yo' hole `n y'all slimy? Fuck that shit! An' yew leave that cum up yo' butt, soldier, hear? Y' gonna need it, bitch."
Leadership qualities, team management skills, an ability to focus, you have to admit the guy had it all, not to mention an absolutely enormous dick. At the moment, it was long and limp, and thumped loosely against his thighs, mutely compelling my full compliance with his orders. I followed the guys and stood under the warm water, gave my scalp a brisk soapy scrub, and worked my way down from there. I threw myself into it wholeheartedly and am willing to bet that no one is more fastidious than an officer who understands the connection between good grooming, maintaining unit standards, and squad cohesion. I let my eyes wander to watch the guys washing down with me. As usual, there was no rhyme or reason to how they were going about it. Sometimes you just have to wonder what on earth is the matter with people. Didn't their parents teach them anything? What did they learn at school?
I guess I was lucky. By the middle grades I had a gym instructor who was always right there beside us in the showers, gladly showing us exactly how it's done. Like a ritual. How to lather our pits and between our legs. How to take pride in our growing bodies, even if we sprung a boner while he was soaping us up. For some reason that happened to me a lot, but whenever it did, he'd keep his cool, wait until the other boys left, get comfortable on a bench, then unleash a boner himself. A very level-headed guy, very poised, mature and athletic, with a build any man would envy, and a nice thick slab of dick jutting from his hairy bush. Up to that point, I'd never seen anything like it, and at first I just stared at it, stupefied, which didn't seem to bother him in the least. He'd jerk it around for me in his big fist, coax creamy goo out of it, and encourage me to touch it. "Just part of becoming a man," he'd say. "Nothing to be afraid of." And how right he was! So you see, when we find our true calling, as he clearly had, there's no end of good we can do. It ripples outward, like a wave, and we never know precisely where its influence ends, on what distant shore.
Anyhow, in the shower you start the lather from the head down, finishing with the feet, of course. It's all but laid out in the training and is so basic, so efficient, it amazes me that people would do it any other way. I looked again at the cute kid next to me. Heavy suds were dropping from his fat curved cock while he busied himself with both hands at his ass crack. It struck me that despite his sizable organ and a wealth of youthful charms, he was the finicky type. I mean, what kind of guy puts that much energy into cleaning his ass?
Of course, a fag might do it. A fag probably would do it. A fag would stand there all day long scrubbing his nasty little cunt and still not be completely satisfied. Now if you were to ask me, that is really sick. And it's pitiful too. But everyone knows that a fag, by definition, is 100% obssessed with male assholes, especially his own. That's all he can think about. Throw in a real man with a big dick and that's it, beginning, middle, and end. That's a fag's entire life story right there. And I understand they've got closets full of appliances, equipment and attachments, some of it high-grade medical stuff, just for cleaning out their chutes. Normal guys wouldn't even know what to do with half of this gear, but ask any faggot and he can tell you without missing a beat. Imagine.
"What th' fuck, Malta!" Tyrone abruptly pulled my shoulder so that all at once I was facing him. He looked angry. Fierce. For a moment I thought he was about to kill me. His eyes were aflame, and his semi-hard dick, swaying assertively between us, made me suddenly feel dizzy. "What th' fuck yew doin' bitch? Fuck! Sissy ass shower queen!"
He pushed me toward an open area with stacked lockers, a spongy black mat in the center, and two long benches on either side. Some of the guys were seated there with towels flung over their shoulders or tied around their waists, pulling nonchalantly at their dicks while they talked. As I approached, I noticed them showing hard or at least chubbing up. Nice man flesh, I must say, a sinewy Asian guy in particular, whom I'd spotted earlier, lean and rippling with muscles. I couldn't help but admire his solid pecs and the curve of his creamy thighs. So butch! And what a dick! Would love to spend an hour or two grinding on that piece of exercise equipment! But Tyrone's presence felt like a storm raging behind me, and I didn't dare to cross him. With one brisk stroke to the small of my back, he had me on my hands and knees, my ass in the air, between the benches. The guys' bare feet and legs were on either side of me, and their dicks, at different stages of arousal, formed the horizon.
"Oh, shit," one of the guys said, "Malta's ass is leaking spooge, man," and all the guys started to laugh. It was funny all right, because I didn't even know it was happening until he spoke up, but then I could feel it, running down the inside of my thigh. Seemed like a pretty nice-sized glob. Probably pretty tasty too.
"Register that as an Other Than Honorable discharge, Malta," another guy called out, and they all laughed again. "Look at that shit! Pussy boy's hankering for a good fucking, man."
To my surprise, their locker room banter excited me. Encouraged by it, I pushed out my hole, slowly clenched and unclenched it a few times, and swished my ass from side to side. Give the guys a little show. Why not? They deserve it. A little sample of what's on tap.
I realized, of course, that they were having a bit of fun at my expense. But big deal! I know how much these guys look up to me, quite apart from their nearly sacred respect for my rank. And what's more, sometimes you just have to take one for the team. Honestly, I didn't mind at all. In fact, I loved the attention I was getting. Best thing that happened to me all day. Better than when your buddies totally ignore you, right? Besides, for some reason I love looking at dicks and just can't get enough of them. All shapes and sizes, but especially if they're long and thick, with a beefy head and a nasty, yawning piss slit. Flaccid, resting on a thigh, nestled on a set of egg-shaped balls, at half-mast, fully erect, pissing, shooting jizz, I love it all. Of course, I'm as straight as they come, so it's definitely not a homo thing. I think of it more as the classical tradition. Admiration, plain and simple, for the physical form and carriage of confident, lusty, red-blooded males. Males with ample genitalia who know how to throw a good fuck, as it were.
In the spirit of their friendly persiflage, I looked over my shoulder, jiggled my ass again, and said "Any and all discharges welcome, guys!"
"Shut the fuck up," Tyrone snarled. "Mo'fuckin' queen." He had forced his way through and was standing directly in front of me now.
"Fucked up li'l bitch," he said and slapped me upside the head. All the guys on the benches tittered. I raised myself to face him, to stare directly into his breathtaking crotch area. Since last I'd seen it, his tumid black pole, slightly tapered toward the base and crowned with an oversized dome, had swelled at its business end to a ponderous thickness. The whole thing lurched erratically, and an elastic bead of precum, swinging from it like a pendulum, threatened to drip from the tip of it at any moment.
"Suck it, bitch," he crowed, his hands settling on his hips.
I leaned in and angled for it, but it kept pitching and veering unpredictably, right and left, up and down. It looked so massive and unwieldy I figured it was one of those cavernous monsters you always hear about, the kind that never gets completely rigid. And then, to my amazement, it did. It heaved upward twice and ascended to its full grandeur and pomp, every last cell of it totally engorged, the hydraulics of it one of nature's wonders. A complete mystery. Black magic. Who needs the Army Corps of Engineers?
"Fuckin' faggot! Take that fuckin' dick in yo' fuckin' mouff, bitch."
He struck me on the chin with it. Solid as a gun barrel, and the generous bead of precum, which had been dangling precariously, broke free. It streaked across my lips and without thinking I tongued it into my mouth. Like jelly. I almost jizzed as my taste buds awakened to the sticky sweetness. Very sticky on the tongue. Tyrone, a mighty brute, tasted sweet, the sheer magnificence of his boner transcendent. It was a five-star bludgeon, all right, and the guys on either side of us couldn't help but sit up and take notice of it.
"Aw, shit, Tyrone, where the hell did you get all that meat, man?"
"That a fucking strap-on, dude? Shit!"
"I'd say you've got a biiiiig problem there, Tyrone!"
"Ain' my fuckin' problem," Tyrone sneered. "This be Malta's problem now."
"Yeah, dude. Go ahead! Faggot's fucking cock crazy, man!"
Tits out, shoulders back, my ass cheeks straining against my heels, I brought myself bolt upright, the better to engulf the monolith before me, rock hard and irresistible. It moved only slightly now, to the rhythm of Tyrone's breathing. Forward and back. Another drop of precum had oozed out and was glistening on his slit, as if to taunt me further. I homed in on it, and as I did, I felt my nuts pull up tightly, like a hand grenade about to detonate. And then, whether it was Tyrone's "big problem" or my own, hot and stiff, it cleaved my lips. And seconds later it was lodged obscenely in my throat. Battering my esophagus. Working itself in and out. Obstructing my airway. This was a real beast of dick, a beast on a rampage, and there was no way to finesse it. I gagged, choked, and gasped for air, forced my face into his dark, prickly pubes, gripped his thighs and held on for dear life. I felt lightheaded. Couldn't breathe. Next thing I knew, I was firing jizz between Tyrone's legs. Helplessly. Long, gooey arcs that plopped decisively on the rubber mat. Five, six, seven rounds, who's counting? Did I pass out? I'm not sure.
"Shit, man, Malta's gone involuntary, guys.
"Jeez! Stiff nips and squirting juice like a bitch in heat!"
"Yeah, look at him. What a goon, with his fucking finger up his ass."
He was right. I did have my finger in my ass. When did that happen? And Tyrone's dick was still anchored deep in my throat. It crossed my mind that it might be stuck in there. What if it was so big he couldn't get it out? Maybe he hadn't cum yet. Maybe that's what he was waiting for. Or maybe he was about to take a piss. Whatever it was, Tyrone's hand was pumping vice-like against the back of my neck, and between that and my finger job, I eventually lost my balance. In a move to right the ship, I reached for his ass, but fell short, grazing the bottom of his butt cheek. My fingertips slipped inside, between his upper thighs, and Tyrone must have suspected an anal asault.
"Keep yo' fuckin' bitch hand t' yo' fuckin' bitch se'f, fagg't. Y' hear?" With a swift preëmptive strike he launched me against the bare knee of one of the guys on the bench. As I fell away, Tyrone's dick tilted up and out of me, like a breaching whale, filling the air with a wet whooshing sound. It was still alarmingly rigid and was coated now, from end to end, with bubbly mucous that dribbled from it and formed cloudy puddles on the mat. My throat felt raw and dry as I gulped air with abandon.
Y' wan' assho'e, li'l shit? How `bout awl y' c'n eat, fag't!" And just like that Tyrone turned, about-face, bent forward, positioned the entrance of his wind tunnel directly in my face, and, using both hands, pried apart his ass cheeks.
"Gimme tongue, bitch."
This front-to-back maneuver happened pretty fast, but fortunately, even when startled, I function at an exceptionally high level of situational awareness. I'm guessing your run-of-the-mill enlisted Joe wouldn't have been able to handle something like this, let alone a numbskull civvie. Contingencies we call them, the unexpected, and Tyrone's asshole was a case in point. The sculpted cleft of his buttocks gave way to a ring of neat furrows surrounding a dark hole that opened to a shimmering pink. Humid heat, animalistic and of indeterminate scent, wafted toward me from this most private of private places.
So take a man's external genitalia, his so-called privates. Well, we say "privates" because you can't go around in public exposing this particular part of your anatomy. But your "privates" are not really as private as all that. How could they be when you show a bulge even when properly dressed? You can't help it. I mean, no matter what you're wearing, the "privates" have to occupy space, up, out, or down, and unless you're a fucking faggot and traipse around in a skintight thong, your trouser bulge is on display, for all the world to see.
And who's looking? Well, it's not women, that's for sure. Except for a few trashy sluts, dick hounds who can never get enough, women have no clue about male organs and even less curiosity. Take my word for it. Men are the real connoisseurs in this department. I look at a guy's bulge with a very keen eye, a stealthy eye that's army trained and laser focused. The contour, delineation, posited placement of parts, I process this data with lightning speed and in no time calculate the size, shape and other relevant particulars. The lay of the land, so to speak. And I do it as a reflex, without even thinking. I don't "decide" to stare at guys' crotches. I just do it as a matter of course. Just for the heck of it. It's second nature to me. And then I get this mental picture, see, as if the guy's right there and balls-out naked. The shaft, the head on it, the veins, the piss slit, the disposition of the nuts, it's all clear as day to me. A faggot would probably love to be able to do this. Like living in a queer porno film. If it's an instance of truly exceptional endowment, I'll take a good long gander. Otherwise, I'm on to the next guy.
The question then is, why on earth do we use the word "privates" for something so public? If you ask me, what's really private is a guy's asshole. A guy's asshole is private property of a very high order. No trespassing! Absolutely no exceptions! Violators will be shot! Guys are always itching to whip out their dicks. Can't get them out fast enough. But expose their assholes? That's a totally different story. No, their assholes are tucked away in the vault of their buttocks, never to see the light of day. Their assholes are a private matter.
"Eat tha' hol', bitch!" I felt Tyrone's spit hit my thigh as he punched out these words. "Wha' the' fuck!"
"Yeah, Malta, give him some tongue, man," one of the guys called out. "What're you waiting for? A written invitation?" and all the guys laughed. "Orders from central command?"
I stretched my neck forward and homed in on the target. It was steamy, and slick. Puckered. A sleek coil that felt slightly greasy on my tongue despite Tyrone's recent shower. No taste of soap. Probably he was one of those guys who pretty much leaves his ass alone. I see a lot of that in young recruits and to be honest, it's always excited me. So offhand! Virgin territory, as it were. Leaning in still further, my buttocks lifted slightly from my heels and I felt my own asshole spontaneously flare open. A cool draft played across it, drifted up my chute, and sent it into spasms, a kind of anal orgasm I guess. My dick jerked drily, painfully stiff again, while I moiled, swooned, and swabbed away furiously, as if my life depended on each fateful stroke.
"So it be like that," Tyrone purred. "Ya, tha's what I'm talkin' `bout. Tha's fuckin' nasty shit!"
He was breathing deeply now, occasionally forcing his hole back and out, shifting slightly from side to side, his he-man rage momentarily quelled. Did he realize that by curling my tongue I had finally managed to squeeze it into the tight pink lining of his secret sex pit? Maybe not. Maybe such fine points were lost on him. Or maybe he did realize it. Maybe he realized it all too well, but didn't dare to admit, not to himself or to anybody else, that he knew what was happening and that he liked it. But I was in there, all right, and could feel his filmy lining pulsate like a beating heart. Talk about taboos! Honestly, I was a little unnerved by just how much this intimate activity aroused me. Unnerved and maybe even a little ashamed. But his asshole was so masculine I couldn't get over it. Couldn't resist it! A real bastion of virility, if you will, and tonguing it out fueled a boner I wasn't about to give up on.
"Jeez, so fucked up, man!" One of my gym mates made this observation, pulling me out of a feverish trance. I'd almost forgotten about them, but lo and behold, the guys were crowding around us now, standing up or seated on the benches, and from what I could tell, a lot of them were showing hard and leaking. It looked like there were plenty of sexy dicks eager to get in on the action.
"Li'l bitch can't stop herself," Tyrone replied. "She a dam hungry bitch!" And he laughed. I could feel it in his sphincter. "But now I'm'a fuck this pussy-ass fagg't," and he straightened up and pivoted, suddenly as supple as a wild animal. He was facing me again, his dick arched out, cantilevered, and implausibly swollen. It thumped against my cheek as he moved in, fixed his hands on my shoulders, and pressed me down, onto my back.
"I'm'a fuck yew now, fagg't. Show me tha' nasty hole, bitch." Just listen to the man! So assertive! The more I interacted with this guy the more he impressed me. Definitely officer material!
"Great idea, Ty!" I blurted out, even though I didn't see how he was going to be able to fit inside my ass. "Go ahead, stuff me with your big fucking dick!" I added, pulling my knees up against my chest and pointing my open hole in his direction.
"Oh wow, Malta, don't be so shy," one of the guys said, and they all burst into laughter.
I raised my head and watched Tyrone settle to his knees. He grabbed my ankles, pushed them up and out of his way, and leaned forward.
"You gonna fuck him dry, just like that, man?" one of the guys asked.
Tyrone paused, "Dry? Wha' ch'u sayin', Tony? Stan' back. Bitch's pussy's so juiced up, she be squirtin' that shit on th' floor soo' as I stick it in, man."
Who was this guy Tony anyhow, and why were the two of them quibbling over trifles? I was losing patience and couldn't help crying out, "Just shove it in, Tyrone!"
"Yew fuckin' shut up, bitch!" Tyrone hissed. "Tony, make th' bitch shut up!"
I felt Tyrone's dickhead punching against my hole and saw this Tony character step forward, park one foot on either side of my head, and lower himself into a squat. Well, at least we were back on track, with not just one, but both of my prime apertures now identified as targets. Glad I spoke up! Tyrone was right of course, I was still plenty oozy down there. His bulbous front end met some initial resistance, but then sailed right on in.
"F7uck, this pussy suckin' me in jus' like a fuckin' vacu'm cleaner, man!" he announced, as his dick abruptly penetrated my sigmoid. I think both of us were surprised how swiftly he'd hit home. Not knowing how long it would last, I ground deeply against the bristles of his pubes and bored down on his bone as he drilled in and out.
"Yeah, sure is a hungry little bitch," Tony said. I managed to get a look at this guy before he planted himself on my face and was inflamed forthwith by what I saw. Tall, tan, and muscular, especially his legs, and he was hairy too, a lot hairier than Tyrone. Judging by his bearing, I'd say he was the lascivious type, and the way he wiped his undercarriage, so to speak, from my forehead to my chin, daubing my face with his sweat and manly attar, it was obvious he was hankering for a deep rim job, whether he knew it or not. His asshole had shown hot pink before making contact with my lips, and I slobbered and jabbed with the tip of my tongue at his crinkled ring, wrangling my way in. It gave him a visible jolt and his hefty nutsac flopped casually over my chin as he pressed for more.
"This what you like, Malta?" he asked, clearly not expecting an answer. "Sticking your tongue in a real man's ass?" He paused, then added, "Check out his clit, guys. He's gonna blast another load, hands free. Look at him. Leaking like a faucet. No stopping this little queer!"
"What a faggot!" one of the guys on the sidelines opined.
It was driving me crazy how masculine Tony was. So brash and dominant! His legs turned out, he insolently scrubbed my face with his furry haunches. I felt like his dutiful bitch, I really did, and I wanted to shoot a creamy jizz wad across my belly, just for him. I thought he'd like knowing he had that kind of an effect on me. He deserved to know that. And what a great voice too! Forceful, deep, and commanding. Made me want to say, "Yes, sir! You like having my tongue in your dank hole, sir? Allow me to stick it in further, sir!" What a shame I don't have milky breasts for him to manhandle, and pert nipples for him to suck, bite, and squish like grapes between his fingers. If only I did! And I couldn't believe he'd even bothered to notice my stiff dick. So perceptive! And to point it out to the other guys? Very thoughtful of him! So I ask you, who wouldn't want to be in my boots?, not that I was wearing any. With Tyrone's torpedo assaulting my ass, and Tony's hole, wreathed in fur, fluttering on my tongue, spending the day with my gym buddies had clearly been the right choice. What a fantastic workout!
"Aw, fuck, guys, I'm gonna shoot," Tony crooned. As he said this, I felt the words reverberate in his heretofore chaste sphincter. To tell the truth, I was disappointed that he was going to let loose so soon, but, physiology being what it is, the way he'd been jacking his dick and drubbing his nuts against my chin, it didn't surprise me. Anyhow, I wasn't likely to hold out much longer either.
And then it happened. His asshole gaped wide, he raised himself, swiveled to face me, aligned his dick with my open mouth, and pulled the trigger. His marksmanship may have been indifferent but he was wielding a powerful firearm and his cylinders were fully loaded. A spate of goopy projectiles pelted my tongue, the roof of my mouth, then the back of my throat, tickling the tender tissue on contact. The last sloppy misfires smacked audibly against my nostril, my right cheek and just below my eye. Strictly speaking, I'd have preferred to take the entire load orally, of course. I'd developed a hunger for the stuff, but at the same time I liked having it dripping down my face for all the guys to see. It was so humiliating! I imagined myself in a dark alley, taking on all comers, bathed in spittle and jizz, a fat dildo shoved up my ass.
Tony was standing over me, his feet well apart, alternately pulling at his dick and scratching at his taut belly. His shapely nuts, their services rendered, swayed above me in their leathery sac. "What a fucking faggot!" he said and walked away, almost as if the sight of me disgusted him.
I turned my attention to Tyrone. He was still at it, deployed in my nether region, preparing an explosion all his own. Lunging deep and thick, and snorting like a beast in rut, he was putting on quite a show. I propped myself on my elbows to get a better look and was transfixed by what I saw. The embodiment of the masculine principle, his handsome head was thrown back, his neck tense, and his muscled torso glistened with sweat. I caught a glimpse of his fuzzy armpit and had an almost irresistible urge to stick my face in it and surrender unconditionally.
"What yew starin' at, bitch?" he roared, but I couldn't stop ogling him. The end was nigh. I could tell. I'd learned to read a charging bull's eyes, the flames from a distant fire, the lids at half-staff. And I could feel it happening inside me too. No doubt about it. The fat middle section of his dick swelled, ballooning against the walls he had pounded into a tender pulp, sending them into spasms. At this point, it was every man for himself. My dick jerked and stiffened, my nuts seized up, and I erupted, spattering thick jets of spooge as high as my shoulders.
"Fuckin' bitch!' Tyrone cried out. The rhythmic convulsions of my anal orgasm had apparently gotten the better of him. He plunged his dick in as far as it would stretch and blasted off, throbbing inside me, and I felt each ropy spritz hit home, losing count at six, or at seven. And I began to fantasize about how satisfying it would have been if, instead of coming to a stop, his dick had entered through my anus and continued to lengthen, snaked through my body, and exited through my mouth, its fleshy head emerging triumphant, dousing my face and neck with his spicy jizz, and wrapping things up with a pissy finish.
In a kind of daze, I writhed on the mat. Tyrone, the conquering hero, pulled out his artillery as hastily and unceremoniously as he'd driven it in, leaving my asshole fluttering and wanting more. He got to his feet.
"You like my honey pot, Ty?" I asked. I fingered it and pried it open enticingly, but he wouldn't take the bait. He just stood there and glared at me, his dick swinging heavily, like overripe fruit. It was hard to tell what he was thinking. "You know, I'm sort of on leave," I babbled. "I can book a room. Now. Later. You name it."
"Yew fuckin' crazy, bitch!" he said, shaking his head. "Yew out of your fuckin' fag-ass mind!" He turned his back to me and walked purposefully toward the showers. His sweaty buttocks gleamed in the stark light.
Playing tough, hard to get, that's the way I saw it, sometimes an effective tactic, but I'm nobody's fool. No, actions speak louder than words, and the way Tyrone went at it between my legs had left little doubt in my mind that he's got more than a streak of homo in him, as much as I hate to say it. I'm well aware that I'm in terrific shape, well put together, and pretty good looking, and then there's my rank and the prestige that goes along with it, none of which can ever be discounted. So I guess it wouldn't be that weird for a faggot to take an interest in a guy like me. I mean that kind of interest. And it's a shame, because there are qualities I genuinely like about the kid. His dick, for example, and his burly nuts. But I can't get past the queer part. It's just too disgusting. Not that he's a pansy or anything like that, thank goodness. But a fag's a fag, and it's not my fault that I see things clearly. Live by the rules, I say, and let the chips fall where they may.
"Hey, Malta," one of the guys called out. I looked up. It was Vince, what you might call a swarthy Mediterranean type if you didn't want to say wop. I saw him at the gym all the time, kept an eye on his shapely buttocks and generous pouch, but didn't know him well. One evening I'd side-swiped his car in the parking lot. Luckily, no one saw me do it, so I never bothered to bring it up, but boy, he sure did. He complained about it for weeks. Wouldn't shut up about it. Said he'd kill the bastard who did it if he ever found out who it was. What a joke! All talk and no action. I just played dumb. Besides, I hate a sore loser.
"What's up, Vince?" I parried. He was sporting a substantial dick, and it was plumping up nicely. Looked like a real mouthful and naturally I was kind of hypnotized by it. Anybody would be. "You wanna shove that thing up my butthole, buddy?" I ventured.
To Be Continued