Loading...When I got out of the Army, I went out on a high, so to speak. As a member of a Special Forces team, I enjoyed not only the duty itself–always in the thick of it, behind enemy lines, flying to this hot spot or that revolution–but I was proud of myself. I did my duty, served my country, maybe saved a few lives (by taking out a few terrorists).
Only had one little snag: now don’t get me wrong, I’m completely straight, but for some reason, don’t know what it is…to see a guy with a tattoo on his chest is a real turn-on.
Again, don’t get me wrong! Never had any “contact” with a man. Never! I can control myself, for hell’s sake! It’s a weird little foible. I don’t remember the first time I saw a guy with a tattoo. Maybe a sailor with a sailing ship on his chest, shirt off, swabbing down the decks of one of the Navy ships in the harbor in San Diego, where I grew up.
When I got out of the Army I moved away from Fort Bragg and North Carolina. Got myself a nice apartment in Boston, one with a view of the bay and the Naval Shipyard. Although my career was in the Army, Boston was a Navy town like San Diego–so I got to continue my hobby of watching for tattooed sailors. Sort of a weird hobby. I never told anybody about it. Wasn’t really sure why I did it.
I lived there a couple of weeks, gradually getting acquainted with the neighbors, and finally I was invited to join a poker game a few of the guys had every Friday night in the apartment complex rec room.
They were good guys. Luckily none of them was a card shark–I’m not that hot at poker. It was fun. A few beers, laughing and joking, losing a little here, coming out a couple of times with some winnings. We became good friends–even though it always took me a second to process “Hahvahd Yahd.”
One night a new guy walked in. “Hey, guys, this heah is Kent Bannah. A Navy Seal! Just moved into #755.”
Everybody stared. Big blond dude. Six-foot-two, at least. Just came from the pool, apparently. He wore white swimming trunks and a light nylon jacket over a bare chest–Ohmigod!–the most magnificent tattoo I’d ever seen!
Classic! None of the cute, trendy colors. It was old-school blue, meticulously drawn, a fabulous tattoo of a three-masted square-rigger. God, it was the USS Constitution! Old Ironsides!
Right across the bay! I could see it from my apartment with binoculars!
He smiled. “Actually it’s BanNER.”
“That’s what I said. Bannah!”
I tried to force myself not to gape, but it was hopeless. The guy was a big ‘un. Blue eyes, tousled hair. About my age, 38 or so, I figured him at 275-280 pounds. Muscles everywhere. Shoulders like gun turrets. Arms like oak branches. A chest so broad and muscular, it was the perfect canvas for the magnificent ship.
Old Ironsides had 44 guns. The 22 in the side-view tattoo were beautifully, accurately drawn. I was admiring the small points when I noticed his nipples. Like cannons themselves. Jutting out like pegs the Constitution rested on.
I blinked, trying to stop the train of thought. Even in the dim light of the rec room, I could see his white boxer swimming suit wasn’t exactly loose. It had to fit around a belly and hips more muscular than the suit-size expected. Big bulge.
Dammit! I turned my eyes away. What in hell am I doing??
I looked back at Old Ironsides. He had manly hair on his chest, but sun-bleached blond, it didn’t interfere with the view of the tattoo. If anything the hair was like wispy fog, making the picture even more realistic.
He shook hands all around. “Nice to meet you, Kent, I’m James Dodheag.”
“Unusual last name, Dodheag.”
“Irish. People on Ellis Island couldn’t understand what my great-grandparents said, so they wrote down for their name what was on their suitcases. It means “Twelve” in Gaelic.” I smiled. “Grew up in San Diego, but I came back here. My Irish roots.”
“James Twelve.” He smiled. “A statistic?”
I smiled back. “So to speak.” He sat down, and we started to play cards.
One of my buddies chimed in, “James, heah, is a retahrd Green Beret.”
“Actually, I’m retired, too,” Kent said. “I got out of the Navy a week ago.” He fussed with his cards. “Still not exactly adjusted to civilian life.” He looked over at me. “You’re a big guy. I figured you for the military or a cop. Special Forces. Might’ve known.”
We high-fived over the poker table. “Brothers in arms!”
That began a friendly competition. “US Navy sees your bid and raises one dollar.”
“US Army calls.”
“Three of a kind.”
“Special Forces sinks Navy battleship. Straight flush!”
Yuk-yuk. The other guys got into it, too. “Ajax Construction heah demolishes Army barracks–two paeh.”
“Academy Market out of stock. I pahss.”
“Checker Cab sees your Jack-high flush–read ’em and weep: Queen-high flush!”
That more or less set the tone for the poker games for the next few weeks. Everybody’s card-playing character became his job.
I loved the poker nights. Laughed ourselves sick. Kent was a funny, clever sum-bitch. Every once in a while he would show up at poker night with “the buffet”–99¢ burgers and kosher pickles.
I loved dill pickles, and when he found out, the ones he would bring me were huge. As he tossed them to me, he’d give me a sly grin. “Anybody who doesn’t bite into it before he closes his lips is queer.”
Of course, just to play along, I took the pickle out of the package and held it out in front of me. “Oh, god, oh, fuck!” And I sucked it into my mouth, slurping, puffing my cheeks in and out, reaching down to make jerk-off motions in my lap.
Yak-yak! “Hey, that’s too good! He’s not faking! He’s done that befoah!” More laughter.
I looked around. “Anybody want to go in the men’s room with me?” Then with a single snap, I bit the pickle in half!
Every man at the table shivered.
“Lucky no kids ah heah. Management would have a fit.”
Kent was a party guy, always coming up with practical jokes and funny situations. Ever tried to play poker where everything is opposite? The Ace is a two, and a Royal Flush is the Two, Three, Four, Five, and Six of Spades? I lost $20 trying to beat a full house of three Twos and two Jacks with my own full house of three Kings and two Queens.
We joshed a lot. Never about the military. We never talked about Black Ops–sworn oaths about that. I showed him my personal collection of combat knives, including an original, 1942 Ka-Bar with “USMC” stamped on the hilt that Kent raved about.
We talked about the snipers on the Maersk Alabama. “New generation. I moved on to instructor status years ago. I could’ve done that, though. Used to shoot cherries out of the neighbor’s tree with a BB gun.” He smiled. “But a Seal is ‘sealed’ at my age. I’m a Navy Walrus.”
The combination of players routinely changed–one guy would be gone on a business trip, on another night, somebody would be absent with his wife to the movies, etc., but Kent and I always showed up. Poker night was my favorite time of the week.
One night, though, in a weird coincidence, I walked into the rec room, and the only person there was Kent. We waited for a few minutes. “Looks like we’re all alone.”
“Want to play?”
“What the hell. It’s either that or making popcorn and watching TV.”
We started playing. Poker with only two players isn’t much fun, though. Finally, with a snicker, he said, “Let’s jazz this up a little. Two of us playing for a buck at a time is a drag.” He lowered his voice. “Let’s go up to my apartment and play strip poker.”
I chuckled. “Won’t be the first time the Army has tossed the Navy butt-naked into the water.”
“Think about it: it takes 13 buttons undone to get into a Navy uniform. It’s just a zipper into Army fatigues.”
We went up to his apartment. Just like mine: one bedroom, living room/kitchenette, bathroom/shower. His was on the wrong side of the building, though. No view of the bay.
We sat on the plastic chairs and started playing at his kitchen table. First round went to the Army. Kent stood up and took off his shirt.
Shit. There was Old Ironsides again. God, I loved to look at that thing! Weird, but it actually made me a little horny. Understandable, really. It was the finest tattoo I’d ever seen. “Where’d you get that tattoo?”
“Weirdest experience of my life. I was stationed in San Diego, and one night I got liquored up with my shipmates. Next thing I knew, we’d taken a bus to the border, crossed over into Tijuana, and somehow found ourselves in a tattoo parlor.”
He smiled. I liked his face. Like a blond cartoon Batman, actually–broad lantern jaw. Hawk nose. Bushy eyebrows. Would’ve been sinister if not for his beach-bunny yellow hair. Gave him a sort of drunken Viking look.
“A very special tattoo parlor,” he went on. “It was a whore-house and sort of an endurance test. A guy would get tattooed while one of the whores sucked his cock. You had to lie there and stand it while the guy used the needle. If she made you lose control of yourself, it made the needle slip–any guy with a smear or a scrawl in his tattoo caught shit for it. He lost it from the blowjob.” He grinned. “But if you didn’t cum, if the pain of the tattoo made you lose your hard, the tattoo artist wouldn’t sign it.”
He brought his chest over close to me. At the right corner–Oh, fuck, right over his nipple!–in red letters: Toro.
Thinking about that made me lose me my concentration. “Navy wins!”
Shit. I stood up and took off my shirt. “Sorry, I don’t have a tattoo.”
“Probably just as well. Everybody knows the women go for a Navy uniform. Army guys don’t get blowjobs often enough to be able to control themselves. You’d end up with a Chinese scribble across your chest.”
“Oh, yeah? Let’s forget the the poker plays. Let’s just go high cards wins.” I dealt us both a card. “Check it out, Navy, Ace of Spades!”
“Fuck.” He had a Seven. He stood up and shucked down his shorts. A jockstrap. I gulped. Big bulge. The webbing pouch held a grapefruit!
He dealt the cards. I got a Five. Shit! I held it up timidly.
“Shit!” He had a Three. With great ceremony, he reached down and took off his flip-flops.
“Hey, strip poker is for clothes, not shoes!”
“Hey, shoes are items of clothing!”
I dealt. I got a Jack. I smiled. “Army wants jockstrap and match!”
“You won’t get it. Navy says the Army pants come off.” He held up a Queen.
Fuck. I shucked down my pants. I wore boxer shorts. Thank god my hardon had gone down, but Shit! Fuck! Hell! My dick stuck out through the fly slit. Kent chuckled as I stuffed it back in. “Hey, not to worry, man, everybody loves a sailor.”
“Fuck you.”
“They do.”
Damn, I walked into that one. Never heard that comeback before. He dealt to me. Yes! A King!
He held up a Ten, saw my King, and stuck his thumbs in the elastic of the jockstrap. He tugged it down. Fuck. That horny underwear was more camouflage than I suspected.
What unfolded out of the sphere compressed by all the elastic mesh was a jaw-dropping set that pretty much defined the word Hung. He stood a good 6’2″, and that cock had to be a good six-inch-two soft. God, probably 12 inches hard! Like a giant squid swimming deep beneath the USS Constitution. I got the weirdest feeling.
Like I could smell it. Impossible. But no. I smelled something. Like the smell of the ocean. I’m an idiot! How could his cock smell like the ocean?? No, it was stronger, more powerful somehow. Eerie. Like the smell of balls. Like the crotch of my underwear. Moron! I’m smelling myself!
No. I was smelling Kent’s male pheromones. Made me a little dizzy.
“Well, Navy sails away to fight another day. And speaking of fighting, isn’t this, you know, like one of those typical porn stories?”
“Huh?”
“You know, strip poker turns into wrestling.” He grinned. “You know–‘Oh, gee, we’re naked, Joe! Yeah! What shall we do? Let’s wrestle!'”
He grinned even wider. “You’re a big guy, probably a little bigger than me. Wanna wrestle for the final title?”
I snickered. “Okay, but as we are. You lost all your clothes. That’s your handicap. I keep my boxers.”
“Deal.”
We moved to the living room and circled each other cautiously. He was a combat veteran, well trained in hand-to-hand, but so was I. Nobody made any quick moves right away, studying each other, watching for weaknesses.
I had to admit it, that fucking ship tattoo was a distraction. So was his cock. Couldn’t stop thinking about him with spread legs getting a blowjob while that thing was inked into his skin. Fuck, how big is that thing hard? And I couldn’t stop watching the heavy thing swing back and forth ponderously–Fuck, it has to affect his balance!
I wondered which of us would be the villain and which the good guy. Both of us were combat vets, so I figured dirty tricks would be the order of the day. Not at first, though. We fell into the typical first move–arms interlocked, one hand at the back of the other’s neck. The clinch, a sort of embrace.
Then he made a quick swivel, trying to get into position for a hip throw, but as he did it, that big cock of his swung out like a Navy Tomcat turning up and away from the carrier, and it hit me in the thigh. God, what a hose!
Broke my concentration. I knew how to avoid a hip-throw, but the momentary admiration of his manhood put me behind the power curve. Before I knew it, I was upended and heading for the floor.
In a second he was on me, but I wasn’t born yesterday. With his face inches from mine, straining, trying to get the pin–Looks younger than he is. Handsome face.–I put his semen-dispenser out of my mind and hooked my legs in his. Once I had him locked, in a favorite pet move of mine, I planted both elbows and Unngh! I rotated my hips, throwing him off me and drilling his legs into a twist that threw him off-balance, on his back, beside me.
Then I was the proud Alfa male looking down at him. We both leaped to our feet, and the match went on. We went through a few “death-defying” holds–showy to the trainees–and each of us got caught in a few throws, pretty evenly matched.
In one combination, I succeeded in getting a hold on him because he had devoted himself to yanking my boxer shorts down. He won out, though, because with my shorts gathered around my ankles, I stumbled, losing the hold. I kicked off the underwear in frustration.
I saw him look. I compared, too. Damn, he’s way bigger than I am.
Anyway, we slugged at it, around and around for, hell, it had to be half an hour. Finally, both of us sweating, breathing hard, tired out, he shoved me backward, and I back-pedaled off the carpet and onto the linoleum of the kitchen area. There I stumbled over one of his flip-flops, and Wham! I hit the floor hard.
Instantly he was on me, dragging me back to the carpet while I was still dazed. I moaned as he rolled me over onto my belly. What the hell? He can’t pin me this way. I was still a little punchy from hitting my head on the floor. “Wait–minute–no fair–“
He should’ve been grabbing my shoulders to roll me over for the pin, but he was fussing with my legs, spreading them apart…then with a sudden lift, he stood up, pulling my hips with him, and Whoop! Suddenly I was on my feet, leaning over with my hands on the floor and my knees slightly bent–a bitch waiting for it!
God, I was hot, dripping in sweat. I looked back, and Ohmigod! He was positioning himself. Mounting me! The motherfucker is mounting me!!
I lurched and struggled, trying to get away, but he had me square–in a perfect hold, hands holding my sides just above my hips. And he got me. When he inserted his cock– Shit it hurt!– I bellowed, “You bastard, I’ll kill you for this!”
“Lost match–motherfucker–you–got it coming!”
Oh, fuck! The big Seal was a submarine, and I was a freighter. His big torpedo burned a white-hot hole in me, and the pain fucked up everything. Hurt so bad I couldn’t struggle! I quieted down, crouching there unmoving, anything to ease the agony.
He stopped, too (thank God). I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t argue. My asshole was on fire!
He grunted, “Give you a break, Army–Gotta–get used–my cock in you.” I just wished I could die. “Soon–you–beg me–“
I lurched and jerked! “The hell I will, motherfucker!” But all I really did was work that big whiskey bottle further up my ass, bringing back the pain. I stopped struggling. He was right. My asshole was on fire, and the only thing I could do was (fuck, how humiliating) get used to it.
I was his submissive prisoner.
No! I won’t take the word submissive!
But as I crouched there like a horny bitch with another man’s cock up my ass– Fuck, he just got my cherry!– the pain gradually became “standable.” How fucking humiliating! My ass was stretching out to fit around Kent’s big prong. I gritted my teeth. He can brag about that for the rest of his life! My asshole stretched out to fit his cock!
A fucking nightmare. I smelled that aroma again. Stronger. More overpowering. Fuck, even his body odor is a turn-on!
But if nothing else, I was damned grateful the pain had gone down some. Once on an Op in New Guinea, we disturbed a native hunting party, and I’ll be damned if one of the bone-nose bastards didn’t chuck a spear at me. Got me, too, right in the thigh. Hurt like a motherfucker.
Just like getting butt-fucked. Kent’s big cock was a spear up my ass!
But something else: when the team medic pulled the native spear out, the pain was even worse! I almost passed out!
I bit my lip. That was something to think about.
Ever so often, Kent gave me another little lunge, sinking in a couple more inches, and although it hurt, I had to admit I was stretching out for him. Damn, I was ashamed.
And it happened. He let out a grunt, and his hips ground into my buttocks. “In you, pal. All the way.” I bent my head in shame. The only good thing about it was that I could stand the pain. It wasn’t getting much less, but at least it wasn’t getting worse.
Then he started the lunges. Short jabs at first. His cock hilted in me, he lurched his hips, jolting my whole body, jabbing himself deeper, deeper, deeper. I was relieved–thought it would be a return of the searing pains, but no. I could stand it.
Then he twisted the knife. “Gonna treat you good, James. Gonna work you into it slow. Make you like it.”
I lurched again–Ow, ouch!–“Fuck you, you cocksucking bastard! When I get up from here, I’ll tear your fucking balls off!”
Still he paused (for which I was grateful), and as a matter of fact, the longer we froze there in that sweating statue, the more the pain went away–until it was just a dull ache in my ass. Finally, “Okay, James, let me recoil and chamber another round, and we’ll go full automatic.
I sucked in a breath. Oh, fuck, now he pulls the spear back out. I was scared, frankly. Above all, I couldn’t let him hear me screaming in pain. I braced myself.
The big rod began to pull out. Slowly. Inch by inch.
I gnashed my teeth, waiting for the agony, breathing hard, fearful I wouldn’t be able to stand it.
But nothing!
No pain! It didn’t hurt! In fact, as the long, long organ slid out, it was slimy and slick. The greasy friction over my dilated asshole was– Ohmigod, this can’t be true!– pleasant!
NO! I am NOT enjoying a man’s cock up my ass! I began to struggle.
“Ah, yeah, James, you getting to like it now?”
Oh, fuck, he knows? “Fuck, no, you bastard! You better enjoy this while you can, motherfucker, ’cause when I get up from here, you’re dead! Yeah, I’m enjoying it!”
Oh, shit, why did I add that??
“…I’m enjoying it because…uh…I’m gonna get you after I get off–I mean when you get off!–Oh, fuck, I’m making it worse!–I mean when you get off my back!”
He chuckled, and my face burned with shame.
But worse: he had increased the length of his fuck-strokes, and far from the agony of pulling out a spear, Kent’s in-out was–Damn, I was embarrassed–a fucking thrill! I bent down my head in humiliation, actually breaking out in a cold sweat. There is nothing so important as hiding this shameful, chicken-shit weakness from him! I will die before I let him know I like what he’s doing to me!
But it got still worse. He really started getting it on. Full-length lunges! All the way in and all the way out! “Unnh!–Unnh!–Unnh!–Unnh!” The first time his cockhead burst through my tiny asshole, the pain was a dagger up the back of my skull. But by then–Oh god, I can’t admit it!–he had broken me in. Even the pains of his cockhead popping in and out were not really pains. More like accents, little jolts of extra sensation.
I really felt like I was drunk. I wasn’t struggling. Couldn’t think of anything but the sizzling pleasure up my ass. I even barked, “Gonna put you in a wheelchair, motherfucker!” But secretly I was enjoying the ride.
“Not–before–breed you!–Gonna–have my baby!”
I would’ve roared something back, but he had changed his angle or something, and maybe in the frenzy of his long lunges, he hit something in me that turned my voice to a hoarse growl and unhooked my brain. Fuck, it was incredible, like a jolt of ecstasy, like a mini-orgasm with every lunge of his cock, and I went nuts.
Suddenly it was heaven to be his holster. My whole body was circled around with bonds of pleasure–I couldn’t have escaped him in any way. The man had bent me to his will. That would’ve shocked me 10 seconds earlier, but suddenly he was lunging me through the gates of Valhalla!
Automatically I spread my legs wider for him, and he took advantage of it–panting and gasping, he rubbed his hands in the slime of my sweaty back and sank it in even deeper. I let out a long groan, a husky, beefy sound I hardly recognized as my own voice, and I felt IT: Oh, no! Oh, please, motherfucker, NO!
I was going to cum.
The pleasure was growing! How in hell can this be?? My hands are on the floor! Nobody’s touched me down there! Well, okay, he was lunging into me “down there.” Just not rubbing me exactly there.
Then he stopped!
Zero. Nada. Frozen. Old Ironsides’ cannon was suddenly still!
My asshole had been sandpapered open by the man’s big cock, spread wide, and then in a change I never thought would happen, he had polished me smooth, turned my guts into a foaming, sweet milkshake–and all against my will. I had to give him his due: the man was a master fucker.
I panted and sweated under him, on the thin edge of surrender, about to be cum from being fucked. But my burgeoning orgasm stopped when he ceased with the lunges–probably the only thing that could save me. God, what a relief!
But it wasn’t a relief! What do they say, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”? Bullshit, there is no fiery rage like an asshole denied its orgasm!
And that got to me: Fuck, I was going to cum from my asshole! The jizz would shoot out of my cock (and humiliate me), but the climax was starting in my butt!
When Kent stopped fucking me, a terrible craving swept over me like I was in the Sahara without water! Suddenly nothing in the world was as important as letting the forest fire still in me burn itself out! I was falling out of the sky from 20,000 feet, and only Kent could give me a parachute–he had to finish fucking me!
I wriggled my ass back at him. Couldn’t help myself. “What–matter?” I grunted. Couldn’t keep quiet.
Then I heard the voice of Satan. “What’s–matter, James?–thought you–wanted divorce.”
Huh?
“You want me–fuck you–gotta tell me!–Beg!”
Both of us were in high rut, panting like racehorses. I would have done anything to get him to keep fucking. Except beg. It was the ugliest order I’d ever heard.
My asshole cinched tight around his big organ–I could actually feel him throbbing–and even those slight sensations kept me in the dizzy, maddening cycle of just-about-orgasm! I bowed my head. The man used his organ like a real master. I was helpless; he’d trashed me. “Do it!” I hissed.
“Didn’t hear–Say what?”
“Do it! DO IT!”
“Do what?”
I was going crazy, my mind a mass of circles! Around and around! His words circled around my crazed lust, teasing me, spiraling down to the fiery ring of my asshole attached to his cock like the rings around Saturn, driving me insane! “For god’s–sake–motherfucker!–Fuck me!–Ram–big cock up my ass!–FUCK ME!!”
And he got me. The Saturn of his cockhead popped through my ring again, and as he hit that magic spot, he growled, “Now you–wanna bear my kids?”
I gave up all hope, all shame, all pride. I had to reach that orgasm! “Yeah!–C’mon!–Fuck me to death!”
And he did. His cock felt even hotter–blisters on my asshole!–as he rutted on me, humping like a madman. He bent over, hands on my shoulders for better leverage. I lurched my hips back at him to drive in still deeper–
Hey! His hands on my shoulders! He’s not solid on his feet, he’s leaning over! I can get away!
But not quite yet. I was almost there. I lifted my head, eyes clenched shut, breathing hard out of my mouth. Oh, god, yes I’ve been wanting this since the day I first saw the big bastard! The crescendo of my orgasm was just about at the tipping point!
At that instant, in his frenzy to ram his cock in me so deep it would never come out, he put his hand over my face and one of his fingers stuck in my mouth! Insane with lust, I sucked on it like it was his cock–and he drove me past the Point of No Return!
As I heard him groan as he reached his own climax, I slipped triumphant and glorious into the furnace of male ecstasy! Never had it like that before. Kent’s giant cock was the torch that lit the fires in my body, and the motherfucking orgasm started at my asshole!
I kept sucking his finger–couldn’t stop–as his magnificent cock made a highway in my ass, gliding in and out of me on a smooth, fiery rainbow of pleasure. I gave him his salute–my cock shot out gushes of jizz like I was a fire hydrant of sperm. Never cummed so hard. Never pumped out so much.
The stench of our bodies was a perfume I would never forget. Sweat. Panting breath. Stale Old Spice washed off with perspiration. And male: that smell of his, odor of balls, crotch hair, and sperm. It was like truth serum in gas form. There was no denying it, my once-tight ass would never forget Kent had been there. The big Seal had taken me to Brokeback Mountain.
As he gushed his nasty, Navy sperm up my ass, he collapsed onto me, releasing his hands to fall loosely on either side.
Giving small, exhausted strokes, he rode me to the end of our trail. Finally I couldn’t crouch there anymore, and I collapsed, falling onto the floor with him on my back, splatting into the pool of my own sperm on the floor.
Longest orgasm of my life. Felt like hours, and it blended into an afterglow that held us both immobile, a purring pair of mounted males, so long I almost went to sleep.
But when his softening cock finally slipped out of my ass, I came to. With a groan, he rolled off me and got up. I looked around–for some reason worried we might not be alone. No problem.
The fuck session was over. I’d been had. He got my cherry.
It began to sink in. The man had fucked me. Treated me like a bitch. Forever more, he could brag that he’d balled me, and I couldn’t deny it. He held my testicles in his fist: one slip, one careless brag, one revelation, and life as I knew it would be over.
Am I queer?
Hell, no! The motherfucker raped me!
But what was that I thought a while back–“I’ve been wanting this since the day I first saw the big bastard”–What in hell was that?
Passion. Lust of the moment. Wild thoughts. Wasn’t true. I’m not queer!
But you begged him to fuck you!
Again, that was nothing faggoty! A man about to cum has a right to finish!
But getting fucked to do it?? And you ejaculated for him! At his command! His little-boy puppet!
I got up, making sucking sounds as I broke the jism-seal gluing me to the floor, and I looked down at the spermy mess on me. Then over at Kent. He looked back with a little smile at the corner of his mouth.
I ought to paste the motherfucker right in that gloating mouth!
No, that would make it even worse. He fucked me. Nothing will ever undo that. Even if I beat him to death, I’ve still been his whore.
Somehow the ball seemed to be in my court. But I didn’t know what to say. “Okay, you bastard. You did it.” I picked up my clothes from the floor and pulled on my pants. I looked him in the eye. “But if you ever tell anybody about this, you will never be safe, you cocksucker! I will come from the other side of the fucking world! When you least expect it, I will cut your throat open with that ’42 Ka-Bar! I will leave you choking on your own fucking BLOOD!!”
He grinned. “Let’s name the first one Kent Junior.”
For a second I thought of throwing a punch, but I knew he’d had to come back with some crack. And if I beat him up, he very well could out me to the world as his cum-slut just from simple revenge.
I bit my lip, picked up my shoes, stuck the clothes-bundle under my arm, and stomped barefoot out of the room. My ass hurt. Hot and sore. Going down the steps was like after a clumsy Army doc’s prostate exam, and I was walking so funny I prayed nobody saw me.
From that day on, I stuck pins in a mental Kent doll. I hated him. I lived for the day I’d read somewhere that he had died in a fiery car crash.
The Navy bastard had suddenly become the undependable keeper of the darkest secret of my life. He held my whole reputation in his motherfucking hands.
But there was something even worse, so bad I couldn’t admit it even to myself. I couldn’t touch liquor, afraid even of beer. Didn’t dare get drunk. Couldn’t lose control. In the dark of night, lying awake in my bed, weak and sleepy, unable to fight off the horrible thoughts, I had to face it.
I must be queer. Since that horrible night, all I could think of was how I got fucked. I strained to keep the memory from replaying, but it haunted me. I could be in a café eating a chili dog, and when I felt the round meat in my mouth, suddenly I was sucking on a Navy Seal’s finger, cumming to the sublime feel of his big cock up my ass.
I made myself a dinner of macaroni and cheese, and as the overcooked macaroni slithered down my throat–like streams of thick sperm–I almost puked.
And something else that chilled me to the bone: I couldn’t jack off! The bastard had snapped something inside me. I got the usual morning wood, but when I tried the usual morning jerk-off, I couldn’t reach a climax! Oh, god, NO!
I had a strange new itch in my asshole. Like an ache. A longing. Oh, fuck, can it be??
I didn’t want to, but just so I’d know, in one of the failing jerk-off sessions, I reached down and stuck my middle finger up my ass. Ka-blam! I went off like a Roman candle!
I must be queer! I’ve got to have it up the ass. I was so ashamed I felt like crying. That bastard injured me worse than I dreamed! As I pulled my finger out of my ass, I realized I would have to manage more secrets.
I drove to a distant city and found an adult books & toys store. I parked two blocks away, and wearing a slouchy fishing hat pulled down over my face, I slipped into the joint. My face burning with shame, I picked out a dildo the shape of Kent’s cock.
I paid in cash, trying to keep the sleepy clerk from getting a good look at me, and once out in the street I stuffed the horrible package in my coat in case the bag marked me as a “customer.” I ran all the way back to my car.
Back in my apartment, I looked at the thing. I can’t do this! It’s like surrendering to him again!
Then what am I going to do? Finger myself into little teenage cummings? Or am I going to face the fact that I’m changed? I can’t go back. He turned me into a bitch. I can’t deny it. All I can do is hide it! If I need a cock up my ass, at least I can do it in secret!
With a sigh, I opened the package. The big rubber dong was just like his. I gulped. Almost exactly the same size. My mental pictures were so clear, I sorted through a couple dozen choices in the store’s display before picking it out.
Well, let’s see what happens.
I stripped down, lay back on my bed, and greased the big thing with gobs of Vaseline. Then I raised my legs. My asshole wasn’t that easy to find. Never fucked myself before.
But once I found it and pushed, it all came back to me. The pain was there–I had healed some–but this time I knew what a bright light was at the end of the tunnel, and the pain wasn’t nearly so bad. And once the cockhead popped in, it really came back to me. The slide in was wonderful! Oh, god I remember this!!
My cock hardened into an iron stake. Yes! Oh, fuck, yes! I pulled the big rubber cock out and pushed it back in. Ohhhh, YES!
A man’s not built to fuck himself, though, and although I could manage some soft strokes, (1) I couldn’t jerk my cock at the same time, and (2) I couldn’t work the rubber cock with the power and speed of a real fucker.
I had to settle for ramming it in me up to its rubber balls, then lying back to beat the meat. It worked. A celebration of hot jism all over my belly.
But it wasn’t a real cock, and it wasn’t real sex. It was an imitation. Maybe 20% as stimulating. Maybe 15% as good an orgasm.
Fuck!
And I got the same feeling when I pulled out Rubber Kent. A weird emptiness. Missing something. And the asshole-ache came back. Any time during the day when The Thoughts came back, immediately my asshole did that itchy little ache, and I was horny for a couple of hours.
I never went back to the poker game, of course. I never wanted to see him again. But one day a couple months later, I happened to see Norman, one of the poker guys, in a shopping mall.
“James, long time no see! Where you been?”
I made up some bullshit about being “out of town.” “Some consulting work for the Army.”
“Kent hasn’t been back, eithah. We figured you two were probably out on some secret mission togethah.”
If only he knew how secret! “No, I haven’t seen him, either.”
“Well, ah you coming for pokah tonight?”
Why the hell not? If Kent is staying away–and hell, I was there first! “Yeah. Yeah, Norm, I’ll be there!”
We had just dealt out the first hand when–“Hey, Kent, welcome back!”
I looked up. I’ll be a son of a bitch! There’s the son of a bitch! I stood up. “Welcome back, asshole.”
“Oh, yeah? Fuck you.”
Norm jumped between us. “Hey, what’s the mattah? Come on, you two, this is just a pokah game–and if the management heahs you cussing…or fighting in heah, you’ll be out of the complex on your ahsses!”
He looked back and forth at us. “Come on, guys, this is a pokah game. Whatevah issues can wait till latah.” He looked at me earnestly. “Come on, call a truce. Let it wait till latah.”
Yeah, what the fuck. I’ve been at this poker game before he moved in. I can hold my breath this long.
Norm went on. “All right, shake hands and make friends.”
Fuck, this is like the second grade!
But Rapist Kent held out his hand. What the fuck. I won’t be the poor loser. I took his hand and we shook.
The poker game went on with a certain tense air. Nothing overt. No threats, no challenges. Just tense. And it broke up maybe a little early.
Kent and I ended up as the only ones in the room. I looked him in the eye. “I want a re-match of that wrestle.”
He stared back, his face grim. “Fair enough. You want it again?”
“In my apartment. And not naked. Wear trunks. And we’ll see who gets it.”
About 20 minutes later I answered a knock at the door. Kent stood there in nothing but the white boxer swimming suit I saw him in the very first day, sneakers, and that breathtaking tattoo. What is it about Old Ironsides that makes me horny?
I was ready, too. I had a pair of wrestling trunks–tighter than his, harder to pull off, close-fitting like a Speedo. And no jock. When my time came, I wanted no delays getting the artillery aimed.
Having fought before, we circled each other quickly, then fell into the First Clinch. This was not for fun. Both of us knew what would happen at the end.
As we stru6ggled against each other, I felt his hardon. Since we both knew what this was about, if I died for it, I had to win this match. I had to get back what was mine!
We rolled here and there, each trying to lock the other in a hold, but all we did was wallow each other around. I felt the flare of his cockhead on my thigh, then on my back, then on my shoulder, and in one panicked moment, I felt it press against my ass.
But he felt mine, too. I made a point of gouging his butt with it. At one point I got him off-balance and laid back over the sofa. I felt instantly horny, and he knew it–“No way,” he grunted, “No fucking way!”–and he lurched, spiraling out of my grip.
As the match went on, gradually I got the feeling I was winning. I got him in some dangerous situations more often than he got the upper hand over me. Although accidents could happen, I still figured beating Kent was just a matter of time.
Then my cock would go up his ass like a comet, and I’d have him looking in adult stores for a rubber cock like mine!
As I manhandled him into yet another hold, I snickered to myself. That big, bumpy rubber cock had made life possible for me, and it hit me–what better way to celebrate that I had fucked my rapist and won back my manhood than, later on, to settle back with a glass of good wine, strip myself naked, and thrust the big rubber fucker up my ass, jacking myself to glory in celebration of my renewed masculinity!
Even in the struggle with Kent, I thought of good times with my rubber cock. One time I thrust it up me, then sat on a beach ball, bouncing up and down as I beat the meat. A very horny jack-off session.
Another time I started the session off with sucking it, glomming the big cockhead into my mouth, licking all around it, even trying to jam it down my throat. That made me so fucking horny, so depraved and lust-drunk, when I finally rammed the greased-up dong up my ass, I came the closest I ever had to cumming just from the dildo busting me open. I climaxed after only two strokes on my cock!
Somehow my pleasure in the horny memories of the big rubber dildo put me in such a relaxed state that handling the wrestling match with Kent became easy. I parried every one of his grabs and attempts without problem. I constantly got him into situations where only a desperate, flailing struggle got him out. And it was effortless. I knew I would pin him in just a few minutes.
But something else. A message from my man-pussy. I’d come to think of it as that when my big, rubber buddy took me. What the fuck are you doing daydreaming about a piece of rubber when you’ve got the real thing rubbing up against you??
And in a flash, my whole perspective changed!
Instead of barring his arm, I let him slide it under mine, pushing me off-balance, something I’d never allowed till then. And I waited just long enough for him to put his arm around my leg and double me up. He did not have me in a lock–I could easily power out of his grasp–but Ohmigod the bulge of his equipment pressed against my ass, and a thousand memories came rushing back.
As if I were grasping desperately, I reached down, grabbed the waistband of his trunks, and yanked. Just as I prayed they would, they tore away, and he was naked. No jockstrap this time. He had the same plans.
And there was that raging hardon. Rubber Kent in the flesh! God, I recognized that big thing. I’d been fantasy-fucking with it for months.
I felt a little weak! But I had to look strong in our lethal game.
I think both of us knew the clock had just about run out. I wrenched around into the superior position again, just to let him know who was in charge. In a sort of revenge move, he slipped a quick hand up through the leg of my trunks–he felt my jock-less balls for a second, then snatching a fistful of the fabric, he yanked, ripping my trunks off with a mighty heave, leaving angry red welts on my legs and belly!
Finally the “gloves” were off. Using every trick, every nuance, every counter I knew, I went after Kent like a leaping tiger, and in a furious, sweating, cussing frenzy, I got him face-down in a half-nelson, my arm looped under his shoulder and back to lock my hand at the back of his neck. He groaned and struggled, but both my legs wrapped around his, spreading them. Flat on the floor as he was, he couldn’t drop down (which was the escape from a full or half-nelson), and with his legs in my control, he was mine!!
I left him lying on the floor, though, pulled up his hips just to his knees, then positioned myself right over his ass, my weight holding him down. My legs spread out, straddled over his, and kept him from collapsing, and my hand on the side of his face kept his head down. He was helpless.
Growling and sputtering, he knew what he was in for. He screamed the same threats I yelled so many months ago. I had to do it! He let out a bellow like a warship’s siren as my cockhead popped inside his rectum.
Fought like a motherfucker! Thrashing and struggling, he fought to raise his shoulders off the floor, and he made it–he crouched under me on hands and knees–but I still had my weight on his ass, holding him down, and my cock still thrust up inside his–now he had a man-pussy. I had to hand it to him. He fought through the pain better than I did.
But I had to face another truth. I was fighting to keep my erection. I was not the same man I was months ago. My man-pussy was roaring-aroused, and in the months I’d spent with the imitation Kent-cock, I’d changed. I couldn’t keep a hardon to fuck him.
I pulled my cock back out.
I’d made my point. I got his cherry. But I wanted more. Something “different” more.
When he looked back at me, wondering why I’d stopped, I kept him in the hold, sitting on his buttocks while I growled down at him. “Okay, motherfucker, I just got your cherry. Your ass belongs to me. You ever tell anybody about me, and I will out you with a loudspeaker on top of a car I drive through the town!”
Then I released him and got up. As he rolled over, I dropped to the floor nearby, on my back, legs toward him, and as he gazed, I raised my legs and spread them. “Come on over here, you big fucker, and sign the agreement.”
He stared, open-mouthed.
I lowered my voice. “All right, you bastard, I didn’t do you the way you did me. Hurt like hell, didn’t it? Well, if I had gone on to fuck you past the pain–to the point you came to love it–you would be a bitch just like you turned me into!”
He was like a dumb ox.
“I left you with the pain in your ass, not the pleasure.” I sighed. “You’re still a man.” I looked him in the eyes. “But if you don’t get over here and show me who’s boss, I’ll fuck you till you’re a bitch like me.” He gaped. “Get over here and fuck me!”
My fucking him to bitchhood was a bluff. My cock got rock-hard only when my man-pussy realized it was about to get ravaged, and as Kent dropped down over me to mount, I was so fucking horny, so insane with lust–It’s been so long, so very fucking long!!–I actually came the second his big cockhead broke through my backdoor.
After that it was solid cum-drenched pleasure! I reached down to lube his cock with my own sperm, and as he took me in that fabulous dance, his magnificent cock showed me once more my new role in life. I lay back in bliss, surrendering everything about me to the overwhelming masculinity of the man.
The difference between the rape and the hotly desired fuck was the difference between a glass of water and a tumbler of Chivas Regal. We fucked all night. He took me in every way there was. I howled like a wolf with him on my back. I was the Roman warship and he was the slave rower, accelerating to Ramming Speed until we crashed into the enemy ship in a blaze of orgasmic ecstasy, spreading the Greek Fire of our boiling sperm all over the universe!
I was his oil derrick, balanced on my head and hands while he fucked down into me, drilling into the hot oil of my guts. I was a prisoner of war tortured with his magnificent stake up my hole, forced to sit on him until I revealed the secret: “I surrender! You’re too much for me! The secret is–“
Jesus Christ! It hit me like a shotgun blast!
I bent down to him, face-to-face, brought my lips onto his, and kissed him! “The secret is that…I love you.”
It was out. A secret I didn’t even realize I had. It was total surrender. He knew everything about me.
He kissed me back. “I think we’d better move in together, James Twelve.”
I nuzzled his ear. “You’re the 12. Kent and his Twelve.”