Straight Lads 4: Connor - The Army Lad

This fourth story explores our hero's intimate relationship with another hero - his friendly neighbourhood Paratrooper. But being big, strong and straight, the Para reckons he can beat the naughty teacher...the result is predictable, and explosive. Poor, silly soldier.

DEFINITIONS FOR POOR LOST FOREIGNERS

Para; Parachute Regiment: The Parachute Regiment is an elite, notionally airbourne element of the British Army. Individual members are known as Para's, and can be identified by the unique, maroon-red beret. Selection to the Regiment is notoriously difficult, as is training whilst one remains part of the Regiment. It is split into four battalions, and its motto is Ready for Anything. It has a somewhat bloodthirsty reputation, owing to its involvement in the 1972 'Bloody Sunday' massacre in Northern Ireland. It is regularly deployed to Afghanistan.

Prologue

God bless our armed forces. Let me say that, right now, out in the open. It's not something we Brits often shout, but I'm sure we have all recognised by now that in no other military would you find lads with such fit, hardened muscle, ready to shoot (or at the very least kick) something in a very erotic manner.

And don't try and tell me that it isn't pretty fucking gay. Oh, I know, all that macho attitude and death makes it seem pretty straight, but if I put forward as a plot for a gay porno a setting in which fit young men live communally, in the company of other men, showering together, taking care of their cocks together, and compelled the follow the orders of their 'superiors'...well, it'd get canned for being too fucking predictable.

And they're ripe for plucking, too. I mean, think about it – your basic British Army serviceman is a young man, decorated with the robust musculature necessary to endure long patrols and difficult living conditions, trained to do what he's told and with a larger-than-average cock he'd like someone to attend to (probably) – I mean, what's not to like?!

What I'm trying to say is – I'm pro armed forces.

But that doesn't stop me wanting to break one of them.

Len and Mary over the road may not agree with the specifics of that, but they'd certainly champion the sentiment (minus the gay bit); their boy, Connor, has been a paratrooper for as long as I've lived in this road, with 2 PARA. He still 'lives' with his parents, or rather, uses their house as a base for when he's back in the country off deployment.

I don't think he actually spends that much time with them, but it does mean I get to see him every now and again, on a semi-regular basis.

He must by now be 23, 24 years old; something like that. Frankly, I don't care how old he is, because he's fucking gorgeous.

He's inherited his father's Irish features. A brightly white, round face with a head of buzzed short coal-black hair, a pudgy nose and piercing grey eyes. His military affiliation is made clear through a sexy tatoo on his upper right arm, detailing the winged insignia of the 2^nd Battalion, The Parachute Regiment in cool azure blue and brilliant white, on a dark blue background.

He's short. If it wasn't for the muscle, he'd be squat. But that muscle...it plates his body like a second armour, readying him for war; no doubt tested in some unseen battle. It makes him look imposing; heavy; square.

In the summer, I've seen him on many occasion sauntering down the road in just a pair of board shorts and flip-flops, the long hairy toes of his wide, athletic feet gripping the cheap plastic base of his footwear, his broad chest coated in a thick pelt of luxurious fur...pronounced pecs topped with a pair of seemingly perpetually hard giant 50p-sized nipples which I just want to fucking bite for him.

His legs are thickly set rugger legs, curving sensuously from one muscle group to another, and coated with that same trademark fur found on his chest.

I like it when he goes for a kickabout in the park with his mates. Walking past my house laughing and joking with them, his arse looking like some gelatinous tumour, his otherwise baggy football shorts struggling to contain the mass. When I picture my face deep within his musky rear-guard, I can't imagine anything but a steeply inclined, darkly menacing crevasse separating the two fleshy globes; sweaty, scratchy absent-minded-straight-boy whiskers tickling my chops whilst I work him over.

Sometimes I walk the dog whilst he's in the park, so I can take a good long look at the other side of him, flopping about as he runs around, tuckering himself out. I like it best when his girlfriend is there; if he scores a goal, the little paratrooper's unruly soldier will celebrate too, moving to stand sharply at attention as the trooper looks over at the attractive girl; necessitating a sharp tug to bring him back into line.

Yes, my neighbourhood Para was eager to please his girlfriend; looking for affirmation from her. But he otherwise masked his submissive streak well, possessing the cocky self-confidence which came naturally to combat forces, with a boisterous laugh and an easy smile. Whenever he was around, friends queued up to spend time with him. All this meant that the attention I knew he craved – the sort of attention craved by all little boys; the need to be led, the deep-seated, carnal need to no longer be in control – he did not get. No doubt, he wore the trousers in his relationships, because that's what everyone thought he wanted.

And with good reason, I suppose. Connor's easy-going attitude masked a more murky past. Hearing the story from his tweed middle class parents, after spending some time in the city's notoriously poor education system (nuffin' ta do wiv' me, guv), he became something of a mini-terror in the neighbourhood, hot-wiring cars and getting involved in drugs. Remarkably, he avoided getting a criminal record, and as soon as they could his parents shipped him off to the army.

I was surprised to learn that a Daily Mail reader like Len actually follow through on his belief that all any young malcontent needed to right them was a stint in Afghanistan: in my experience, it is a belief middle-aged parents hold with regard to everyone elses children, but not their own.

Even so, I couldn't help but wince when I heard of Connor's fate.

But unbelievably, teaching Connor how to kill a man seems to of calmed his rambunctious personality. Entering with no qualifications and no discernible skills, he was now a Corporal; a leader of men; and wanted to make a career of it.

But I would bet money that his unruly cock was still causing him problems. Yes, that's right – as you might imagine, I very much wanted to break Connor in every way possible.

But how? The guy could (literally) kill me. And his past, whilst behind him, bled into the present – he still maintained an enigmatically menacing presence, and whilst he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, he seemed to think things through. I had a hard time picturing myself overpowering him and tying him to a bed so I could fuck him. So, on that basis, I put Project Connor to the back of mind; presumed my fantasies would remain just that.

That was, until one quiet Sunday. Connor's parents had gone away for the weekend, and they'd asked me (!) to keep an eye on the house. Pretty ridiculous request, I thought, given that their army boy had come off deployment just the previous Wednesday and as such, was dossing around the house...but I thought maybe Connor himself was going off somewhere as well, so I nodded politely and said I'd keep an eye on the place.

Well, one thing led to another and I didn't keep an eye on the place. It was early in the evening, and I was watching the Countryfile weather forecast (best weather forecast there is – it's for farmers) when a loud cacophony started up from over the road.

Listening for a few minutes, I soon realised that it was meant to be music.

Well this is awkward, I though. Am I supposed to tell Connor to quiet down? I couldn't see that ending well. So, like a nervous pervis, I turned off the light and looked through the crack in my window; lots of people were milling around on the front lawn of Len and Mary's house.

None of them were Connor.

So, I put on my coat, and went over the road. I mean, what's the worst that can happen?

I should add that I'm in my late 20s, but look younger, so when I turned up over the road to demand to speak to the boy in charge, I was met with greetings and nods from weirdos who were smoking something which contained a lot more than tobacco - as if I were a fucking guest.

Insulted, but also not wanting to pass up this opportunity, I swallowed my pride and said hello to the druggies.

Looking for Connor, I walked over to the little path which ran alongside the house, and craned my neck over the low gate to look into the back garden.

I then removed my phone from my pocket, and took 15 pictures of Connor snorting a white powder from a piece of paper.

I presumed it wasn't fairy dust.

Happy with myself, I quietly left and returned home.

The pictures were good – but how to use them? Again, I was confronted by the fact that the person I was trying to 'get' could execute me. Then, my phone beeped with a message.

And it hit me. Suddenly I had my plan, and I knew, even though simple-minded Connor didn't, that it was only a matter of time until I would claim the boy's delicious reproductive organs as my own.

Chapter One: Making Contact

I had obtained Connor's email address a few years ago, back when I'd needed to contact him about organising his mother's birthday party – at which he was the surprise guest. But I hadn't used it since then...well I couldn't exactly ask him for an updated one, so I just sent my planned email to his old address, and crossed by fingers that it would reach him.

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: Your Drugs Business

Hello there,

The name's Ben; I'm a concerned citizen who lives in the same area as you. I was walking home from the weekly Church hymnal recital the other day, and I couldn't help but notice you were consuming Class A drugs in your back garden. To make sure it was definitely you, I took a few snaps – one of them is included here. Now, good God fearing lad that I am, my first thought was to hand the piccys over to the police; I mean, who knows? For all I know, you could be in the sort of profession which expressly prohibits the consumption of any illegal narcotics, for any reason. But then I thought, NO. Don't assume the worst in people, Ben; don't do that. That's what Kevin (my former long-term sexual partner) did, and you're NOT him. So after tracking down your email through the internet, I thought I'd give you one teensy, weensy chance to avoid that prison time, and let you know that we're going to play a little game. You get that reference, Connor? Yes, I'm sure you do – I imagine you're the sort of person who goes to see every 'Saw' movie at the cinema on the day it comes out, and lists it as one of your favourite films on facebook, completely failing to realise that not only is it a series of films which is consequently NOT an applicable response in a category where you're required to pick SPECIFIC individual films you like, but also failing realise that they're all total wank anyway.

Anyway, as I was saying – you're going to get a chance to redeem yourself, and all this can remain our secret. Now, I know you probably think this is all a joke, or something you can get out of, so just let me say that it isn't a joke, and you can't get out of this. The pictures – like the one I sent – exist, and if you fail to comply with my instructions, they'll all be sent to the police, together with your name and address. Oh, and I'll send them to the Army, too. Just in case; are you in the Army, by any chance? Not knowing you personally, I wouldn't know. What happens if a person in the army is caught red-handed consuming illegal drugs? Bad things, I imagine.

Royal Mail will deliver a package to do in two days. Open it in private, and comply with the instructions therein. Once you do so, I'll know that you're serious about avoiding prison, and we can then begin the game. If you fail to comply by this time next week, I will send the pics to the police.

All the best,

-Ben xxx

Obviously, my email was jam packed with lots of lies and falsehoods, to throw him off the scent of my real identity, together with a strong dose of sarcasm which I hoped would just confuse him.

I must say, it was all very exciting. I felt a bit like Jason Bourne.

I didn't have to wait too long for a reply; about two hours later, I got in response:

From: “reap” <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

To: <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

Subject: RE: Your Drugs Business

lol who r u

u sound fookin insain and saws gud so stop beeing a dik about it

shuv ur package up ur arse u queer wanker

-Sent from my iPhone

Now obviously, I could've replied with any manner of things to that. My first thought was something along the lines of 'oh, I think you'll find I'll be shoving my package up YOUR arse, *knowing wink*' but after a moment of quiet reflection, I decided against it.

I'll let the package speak for itself.

Sure enough, two days later, I found a new email in my inbox.

From: “reap” <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

To: <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

Subject: RE: Your Drugs Business

wut is this shit u sent me

howd u kno my email and adress

if you contact me again im gonna find out wher u live n break ur face

-Sent from my iPhone

I sent my reply straight away.

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: RE: Your Drugs Business

Hi Connor,

Thanks for your last email. Just a couple of questions; how are you going to find out where I live? I hate to break it to you, but Columbo's dead, the A-Team are retired and Miss. Marple ain't even real, so you'll have to figure that one out all by yourself. And call me crazy, but you don't exactly strike me as the owner of a coolly methodical, viciously thorough intellectual mindset?

Also, you said 'if I contact you again' – does this email count as that contact? Because I'm just sort of replying to your email; it hardly seems fair for you to go all Poirot on me and start tracking me down when I'm just responding to the contents of your own email.

Also, just because I know you probably have trouble with sums involving large numbers – two away from seven is FIVE, so that means you've got FIVE days to comply with the instructions, before you get a visit from the police.

Cheerio and toodles,

-Ben xxx

An hour later:

From: “reap” <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

To: <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

Subject: RE: Your Drugs Business

il find u if u contact me from now

and i dont need columbos help I got friends who can trak down anybody

no way im doeing what the box said

-Sent from my iPhone

I replied myself five minutes later:

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: RE: Your Drugs Business

Okie dokie. Well, I guess that means you've got five days to find me and break my face – good luck! You might want to try the gay directory enquiries; I'm probably in there.

And maybe instead of thinking on such a long-term scale, you should just take each challenge as it comes? The situation is what it is, Connor, and the only way the police will DEFINITELY find out about your drug habits is if you don't do what you've been told to do.

And I'm glad you've got 'friends', Connor. I'd hate to think you were enduring this challenge alone – I'm sure you're druggie mates are a veritable rock of support in such trying times.

Oh, and lastly – the 'box' didn't tell you what to do, Connor; it's not Kitt, with a mind of its own, creating directives for you to follow; I'M telling you what to do.

Get it right, son.

Take care,

-Ben xxx

The remainder of my week was quite amusing. Like I said, Connor might know how to jump out of a plane and shoot a gun, but book-smart, he ain't (bless him).

Walking past the Church most days, I was delighted to see some stick-thin little chav standing around, no doubt trying to identify 'Ben Dover' for his lord and master, Corporal Connor, and in the process giving the little old ladies shuffling into the Church the fright of their lives.

I half wondered if Connor himself was in front of a computer, googling the gay directory enquiries and wondering why what he was looking for wasn't included in the 12.4 million results.

The days ticked away. Still no email. I started to make contingencies – I guess, if he didn't do it, I actually would have to just send the pictures to the police.

What a fucking waste.

But I still held out hope. I still held out hope because I knew the blackmail was providing suitable cover for my randy straight soldier to engage in his deepest fantasies – to relinquish control. I knew, he wanted to relinquish control; that it excited him. He just had to have the guts to do it.

And whoever heard of a Paratrooper without guts?

Sure enough, at the last minute, my fears were allayed when I got an email.

My dick tingled when I saw it was from Connor, and had an attachment contained within.

I opened the email. There was no text. I downloaded the attachment. Up popped the image I had ordered Connor to construct.

It was Connor, in his room, holding up a copy of this week's 'Nuts' magazine, to prove the date. Around his neck he wore a sign of white paper which had written in black felt-tip pen, 'Paratroopers are ready for anything, so I'm ready for cock. Fat ones preferred.'

Oh, and he was naked, apart from a maroon beret covering his round head, a pair of white socks covering his muscular feet, and a pair of his mum's frilly pink knickers, struggling to accommodate a pair of hairy obelisk-like thighs whilst also struggling to contain a meaty assortment of soft, military-grade giblets.

And no, he wasn't smiling; he looked thoroughly pissed off as he looked straight at the camera, and I was fine with that. I spent a few minutes looking at the lad's long, hairy thighs, muscular chest and arms, and flat belly. The knickers were wonderfully tight, with the front bowing obscenely as it tried to cope with the unaccustomed weight of Connor's heavy, not entirely soft genitals. A thin sliver of gnarled pubic hair was visible at the top, and the fat, sheathed head was darkly delineated through the paper thin fabric.

I replied almost immediately.

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: RE: pic

Hi Connor (or should that be Selena?!),

Thanks for the pic! I'll add it to my wank bank.

Glad you decided to see sense and comply, finally...but let me tell you, that was a pretty scary few days! I was walking back home from the big gay club in town – a bit worse for ware, as you might imagine – and when I saw this gormless looking 18 year old making a bee-line for me I thought...hello! This is it! I've been found out! Very nearly pissed my pants.

Thankfully he was just after a blowjob (still don't know if he was a friend of yours though).

But the fear – the fear was real! And that fear has to be factored into the 'price' of my immediate silence.

I'm sure you don't agree, but I couldn't give a flying fuck. So put the panties back on, get a hard-on (tease yourself for a little while so that the end gets all drippy – if you're the drippy sort, that is), and take another self-pic.

If you do that, I promise not to call the police.

Cheers,

-Ben xxx

Well, as you might imagine, Connor's rapidly evolving dislike of my email address was only intensified when he read that.

From: “reap” <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

To: <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

Subject: RE: pic

fuc u

i aint queer lik u

-Sent from my iPhone

My reply, sent seconds later:

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: RE: pic

I know you're not gay! Of course I know that, lol...why would I want you to do it if you were gay?! I'd just pick you up in some bar, take you home and make you do it in front of me, like a good little subbie! lol.

Get it done. Do it now, because if you leave it til tomorrow, you'll only have to steal your mum's panties again.

Presuming you still don't want me to email those pics to the police and the army, that is? Can you imagine what the family would say if they found out? lol. Just do it sweetie.

Kisses and cuddles (eventually),

-Ben xxx

I didn't get a reply for a while. I basically sat in front of my computer, looking at the list of emails in my inbox, clicking 'refresh' every three seconds.

After half an hour (that's a lot of clicking), Connor drops me an email.

The pic included was precisely what I'd requested – he no longer wore the sign or the had the magazine, but his mum's knickers were back on, with a tasty-looking, pink hardon emerging from the waistband, a dribble of warm, transparent juice lazily trickling down the shaft and staining a waistband already darkened by his oily baby juice.

As soon as I saw the delectable, unsheathed head, shimmering with sex sweat in the low light of his bedroom, I knew I had to have a taste.

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: RE: pic

Hi babes,

You've got a big cock! When you were being such a knob earlier, I thought to myself, 'Jesus, this guy is such a fucking douche bag; he probably has a pretty small cock' – boy, was I wrong!

I guess your attitude problem is unrelated to your dick size?

Anyway, thanks for sharing it with me; you're a blast (I presume). And I know you're probably after your pictures. And that's fine; I'm definitely going to give them to you. You sent me two pictures; so find enclosed two of mine. Fair's fair, right?

Oh, if you want the other 13; just let me know.

Thanks again for the wank material,

-Ben xxx

From: “reap” <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

To: <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

Subject: RE: pic

are u gona send the other pics to the police

-Sent from my iPhone

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: RE: pic

Yes.

-Ben xxx

From: “reap” <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

To: <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

Subject: RE: pic

ur such a cunt

send me da ova pics

-Sent from my iPhone

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: RE: pic

Thanks! I love you too big boy (although now that I think about it; I've known bigger).

Tell you what; to prove what a good, morally upstanding citizen I am, I'll surrender the other pics – all of 'em, every single one, just as soon as you make a little video for me (no more than 15 minutes – if a wank video is more than 15 minutes, I tend to get bored) on that fancy iPhone, wanking that big old cock of yours to orgasm, in mummy's panties.

I mean, now your all juiced up and ready to breed, you might as well, right? Not a big deal.

Yours in moist anticipation,

-Ben xxx

And then...nothing. I knew he didn't have to return to deployment for a while (his previous jaunt had been a combat deployment, so he got a bit longer off), but if he didn't respond, well, there was nothing I could do to take this further.

I wondered if he'd decided cut his losses; if he had buried his desires deep within him; if he'd had the sense to see he could only get sucked further into this, and that the most sensible thing to do – of course – was to say 'fuck you', and let the pieces fall where they may.

But for that to happen, Connor would have to be unusually perceptive; inexplicably far-sighted; unconventionally intelligent.

I mean, it all just seemed so un-fucking-likely.

But then, on day seven, my boy came through for me, in more ways than one.

He sent me a 55mb video. The picture was initially all over the place, but it eventually became centred on the middle of his bedroom. After a few seconds, Connor walked into shot, standing as he looked at the floor, unable to look at the camera.

His hands shakily lowered the ridiculously frilly pink knickers down his substantial legs until they were out of the way by his knees.

Connor's dick was a lot like Connor – short, thick and intimidating, like a cross between a stunted cucumber, with a wide, cylindrical body, and a spitting viper with a deeply crimson, flared knob just barely poking out of it's wrapping.

It was now horizontal, his prior sexual excitement replaced by cautious nervousness, and half-hard as a result - the one eyed monster looking at the camera, as if trying to stare me out.

I decided after a few moments that, on balance, it was a nice cock.

He scooped himself up in his left hand, drawing back the loose foreskin to reveal the succulent plump head I now longed to wrap my lips around.

He looked to the side as he stroked himself, his eyes closed – imaging I don't know what, but I was pretty sure he wasn't imaging me.

But after five minutes or so, his imagination combined with his horniness, perpetually bubbling away with him, was clearly working as in spite of the camera he began to return to hardness.

He then started jacking himself forcefully, his left pec and upper left arm flexing in time as the thumb and index finger of his left hand concentrated on flaying the purple head at the end of his six inch weapon.

In his own world now, his right hand instinctively cradled his protein-filled walnut-sized bollocks, drawn up in their snug, hairy housing, as his fingers zealously frigged himself, his hand a blur with shimmering drops of juice being flung this way and that as he did so. After ten more minutes of furious self-flagellation, he pointed the bulging nozzle of his cock in the direction of his wide, muscular left thigh just before bolts of gelatinously fluidic white lightening leapt a few inches from his cock, splattering his thigh with thick, greasy blobs of seed.

Only at that time did he open the eyes, see the camera and turn pink with embarrassment as, with his cock still drooling remnants of jizz, he moved out of shot and turned off the camera.

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: RE: pic

Thanks pal! You're an absolute star – or at least, you will be if I upload that video to youtube, lol!

So I guess I'll surrender all the pics – I mean, some of them are fun to look at, but that video is worth way more! I have to say, I wasn't sure you could get hard on demand – but you did yourself like a natural; I guess once you've been in a major warzone, wanking yourself on camera becomes pretty easy, eh?

Still, I'm impressed. I couldn't do it; I have WAY too much self respect.

I mean, don't get me wrong - you ain't doing anything illegal on the video...but lets be honest; jail time, you can do – sure it's a bitch, but once your debt to society is paid, it's paid. But everyone you know thinking you're a queer who wears his mums panties and uploads videos of himself to youtube? Eek. That's a kinda lifelong sentence, isn't it.

So sure, I'll give you the pictures – all of 'em are included with this email - but from now on,you and I are gonna be real good pals. REAL. Good. Pals. In fact, I'm gonna look after you when you're not abroad shooting foreigners; make sure incidents like this unpleasant drug business don't happen again. So you do whatever I fucking say, as soon as I say it, or I'll ruin your life. And just so we're clear, I mean, completely fucking ruin – like, your own family won't even talk to you. Understand?

But Connor, don't worry. There is always hope. As I've mentioned before, I'm a big believer in redemption. I previously said you could get your life back – and I mean that. We still have our little game and, even though you've provided me with some ace blackmail material, I won't use it against you provided you play our little game to the end.

That'd be nice, wouldn't it? To get your life back? Right now, I imagine you'd like that more than anything – and I want to give it to you, Connor. Oh, I so want to give it to you, it's untrue.

Now I know what an eager beaver like you is probably thinking right now: 'I want a slice of THAT pie, Ben! What's the game?!'

Well let me tell you Connor. There are four games. I've taken inspiration for each of them from the teachings contained within the Bhagavad-gita, the Hindu scripture upon which the International Society for Krishna Consciousness is based – the particular faith to which I ascribe to (I am also a leading figure in the Wolverhampton office of the Krishna movement, but that's neither here nor there).

It'd be wrong of me to give too much detail at this point, but the first game tests the virtue of patience, the second tests the virtue of charity, the third tests the virtue of courage, and the final tests the virtue of love.

And I think you'll really benefit from what I have planned for you, Connor.

Because I can't help but notice that your life has been a little disorganised lately.

So I think it's time to put your life in order, Connor; and I'm just the queer games-master to do it.

I'm sending you another package. Make sure you open it in private; the contents are a little bit, shall we say, homosexual.

Big hot sloppy kisses all along the inside of your thigh,

-Ben xxx

Chapter Two: Securing Tactical Advantage

From: “reap” <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

To: <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

Subject: RE: pic

whats this shit u sent

ur insain now way am i doin this fuc u man

-Sent from my iPhone

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: RE: pic

Hi Connor me mucky old mucker,

Glad my package got to you ok! My faith places great value on patience, and I think it's something you could really benefit from appreciating more – you can't have everything whenever you want it! Be it computer games, trainers, or orgasms.

Have you tried putting it on yet? Might be a little snug – it was made for little tiddlers, not big woolly mammoths like yours!

Now, don't worry about the key: I have that – and let me assure you, it'll be winging its way to you in the post, and should be with you in a wank or so – I mean, week or so! Freudian slip, lol.

But to be serious for a minute, you can totally trust me; I'm a man of religious conviction. And who ever heard of a religious person doing something bad?! I know I haven't, and I'm absa-positively-bloomin sure that you haven't, either.

Now, my suggestion: have a cheeky wank now, to get all the muckiness out of your system, and that'll help keep you focussed for the next seven days.

Don't forget – you need to send me a pic as soon as you put it on, to prove you've done it. The seven day countdown only starts from the day you provide the picture :-(

Oh, and I'm going to put the little outburst contained within your last email down to an overproduction of testosterone on the part of those large testicles you carry around with you, for which you are not to blame, and let you off. Because we do both remember that if you so much as dare to think about not doing what you're asked, then that video gets made public? Yeah, I'm sure we both remember that little factoid.

Dems da rulez, sorry!

Lovingly yours,

-Ben xxx

Hehe.

I'd sent my wild army stud a...device. A device to help provide him with some much needed focus. It was basically a plastic, transparent sheath for his cock. It slid snugly over the cock, and was locked in place with a small, but conventional, metal padlock. It made erections painful – you couldn't get fully hard, and after a while, the hardness you did have would dissipate because it got so fucking painful to maintain.

I'd never used it myself, but I was eager to try it out – and who better to test it on than a sexually conventional, straight edged bull of the British Army?

I knew Connor was used to a disciplined life in the forces. This just took his discipline to the next logical level. Or...so I told myself, anyway. I mean, the way I saw it, his army training made him well suited to this sort of thing; the army takes an idiot like Connor, breaks him down, and rebuilds him as a well-built stud who does what he's told and only fucks what he's supposed to fuck.

Which, of course, is just how Connor likes it...or so I kept telling myself. This belief was just that – a belief. A hunch.

But...I dunno. I guess I felt pretty sure of myself. In my experience, most straight lads relish the imposition of boundaries; it's what boys need to function.

It's just a case of fucking that fact into them.

Now. I should say at this point, I originally envisaged the device serving as a sort of...bargaining chip.

Connor would flat-out refuse to put it on; I would, 'reluctantly', demand of him something not quite so humiliating, and he would jump at the less humiliating option, thinking he'd got away pretty light.

It didn't quite work out like that.

I don't know if it was my email which scared him, or if he just hadn't read the email properly and didn't know what he was getting in to, or if he just really wanted to put his dick in my hands, but the next thing I get is this:

From: “reap” <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

To: <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

Subject: RE: pic

howd i get it of if i get hard

-Sent from my iPhone

Accompanied by a picture of my big hunky para, trackies and white Calvin Klein's pulled down around his thighs, and with the hard transparent device firmly ensconced over his soft slumbering cock.

I couldn't help but laugh...and wonder. Could he seriously of misunderstood the device, or misread my email? I wanted to ask...but I didn't. This whole mission of mine was about creating a pleasant fiction to allow him, a straight boy, to lose sexual authority to me, another man; to start questioning him about the details would undermine that.

So I stuck with the pleasant fiction.

For his sake.

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: RE: pic

My recommendation: don't get hard. And WHATEVER YOU DO: don't let any girls see it. Because even if they don't say it, they'll think you're a total grade A faggot with that on.

Also, there's been a change of plan. Would you believe, I've misplaced my stamp! So instead of me sending you the key, we're going to meet up. Now, I work during the week, and I've got an activity weekend planned with the local synagogue this Saturday/Sunday, so we'll have to meet NEXT Saturday – that's 11 days from today. Ok champ?

So on Saturday afternoon, slap on your most understated cologne, squeeze that manacled cock into your ripest boxers, and get your arse to the big shopping mall in town for 2pm. Go to the food court on the fourth level. Sit down. Relax. Have a café latte, maybe. Oh, and keep your phone on. Don't bother replying to this email; if you don't show, that vid is made public, and you'll need to call a locksmith to get you out of that cage, lol! So you'll be showing up. Let's not even bother pretending otherwise.

See you there!

Yours in salty release,

-Ben xxx

I didn't actually get a response from Connor. But I was sure the clamp on his cock provided a pretty constant reminder of his dilemma and, whilst the hormones would be steadily building and with it, his natural inclination to rebel, I felt certain that the cage and his military training would keep him in line; keep him controlled - like all big dumb straight army lads are meant to be.

The following Saturday was predictably busy at the town's biggest shopping centre. I arrived at about 1.30, so I could set up. Not that I had much to set up – I queued up for my coffee and sat down on the fifth level; an atrium which overlooked the fourth level below it, with a table which afforded me a good view of the comings and goings on the lower floor.

I removed my smart phone, and an envelope. I tore the envelope open, removed the key, as well as the note it came with. I didn't read the note (not really necessary, given that I'd written it) but I pushed the whole lot back into my coat pocket.

Connor arrived at about 2.05pm. He wore white Adidas trackies, K* Swiss 'Altadena' trainers (brilliant white with a skyblue gradiant brushed along the side); and a light grey hoodie and dark grey baseball cap with a white Reebok logo on the front.

The hood of his hoodie was pulled up over the cap; clearly, Connor wanted to see, but not necessarily to be seen.

He looked around nervously as he slowly sat himself at a table just in my direct field of vision.

Pretending to still read my book, I picked up my phone, and placed it over the concealed pages of text, and began my email.

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: I can see you

Hello Connor,

You're late, but I'll put that down to the buses. How are you feeling? Nuts driving you nuts? Just about ready to burst? Well, maybe today'll be the day you can relieve some of that pressure...but know that if you fail to do as instructed, then it most definitely won't be that day. Understand?

I'm watching you right now. I'm also watching the person you're about to walk over to – on the fifth level, mid 20s, short dark hair, skinny build, on his own, wearing an AC/DC T-Shirt. About 20 minutes ago, I put an envelope on his table. I did this walking past his table from behind him, and I immediately went to the toilets to take off the coat I had worn whilst doing so. This means he is unable to identify me, having never seen my face or the clothes I am now wearing, so don't bother doing your Miss. Marple impression on him.

In the envelope is the key for your little device. I also included a note detailing what it unlocks, and how the person who wants the key will probably do quite a bit to get it back. Your task – as part of your charity task – is to go over there, and do whatever the fellow wants, in order to get your key. Who knows? Maybe he'll just want you to wash his car. But given that he was reading the Gay Times as I walked past, I somehow doubt that.

Theatrically yours,

-Ben xxx

Of course, that was all bullshit. The mystery man whom I had described as having just received the key to Connor's testicular salvation was, in fact, me.

Connor's face as he read the email on his phone was a right picture.

From: “reap” <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

To: <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

Subject: RE: I can see you

just giv the key 2 me

this aint funy any more i think im guna b ill if if i cant wank 4 much longa

-Sent from my iPhone

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: RE: I can see you

Yes Connor, that's terrible – my cock weeps for you, it really does; but I don't have the key any more. Understand? I haven't given the guy a copy or a fake or another set of keys – he has the only key.

If you want the key, you have to get it from the person who has it.

Good luck.

When Connor slid the phone back into the pocket of his worn trackies, I surreptitiously watched out the corner of my eye as he looked around himself, either trying to spot his enigmatic controller, or trying to think of a way out of this.

Eventually, after a few minutes, he cautiously stood, and made his way to the stairs.

In no time at all, he was on the fifth level, spotted me, and reluctantly approached.

He'd shaved that morning, but still maintained a five o'clock shadow from his dark, rounded jaw. His round face made him look younger than he was, but he possessed the heavy build and tired, smoky eyes of maturity.

But I was happy to see he still had that boyish countenance – the effervescent don't-give-a-fuck gait and intimidating alpha-male stare; the tell-tale signs of a creature ruled not by the contents of his head, but by the contents of his bollocks.

I knew he also possessed a lad's inbuilt need to breed. I mean, that's why he was here – as his curt email earlier demonstrated, this wasn't about any video – he couldn't give a fuck about that any more – he wanted to regain the ability for his angry cock to rear up and slam into something.

Little did everyone else in that shopping mall realise, but the lad standing before me was at that moment forlornly breeding into a male chastity device, his balls controlled by my little key.

He spoke first, mumbling “you...the guy with the key?”

I replied, “you...the army guy with his dick locked up?”

He sat down without replying, planting one thick right arm on the bannister beside us looking down on the lower level, leaning back in the chair with his legs spread wide.

His youthful stance could not make up for the nervousness in his voice.

Unlike myself, Connor was not a Thespian.

“So,” he began, very matter-of-factly, “um, I'd be, like, really grateful if I could just have the key.”

“Well,” I replied, “the note did sort of imply that you'd be willing to...work...for it.”

“Listen, I'm straight. If that's where this is heading...I'm, I'm straight, so, that's not gonna work.”

“Sure, I understand,” I replied. “But, you have let some guy lock your dick up, and I am the only one with the key.”

He leaned across the table. “This guy, yeah...he's a fucking psycho. Now, I'm not saying you should get involved or anything, but that's the truth of it. The guy's, like, insane. So, just have some fucking compassion, and give me the key.”

It was a well-reasoned argument. But, given I was the psycho he was referring to, not one I was especially sympathetic to. “Mate, listen...I'm going to give you the key. Ok? Don't, don't worry about that. But bearing in mind the guy is watching us, I think we should probably play along, right? I mean, if he's crazy, it'll only make things worse if I just give you the key right now and destroy his game, won't it?”

He reluctantly nodded. “'spose so. So...what do we do? Just sit here?”

“Well, let's just talk for a bit, ok? That's not so bad.”

“Ok...”

Hehe. He'd wish he was doing anything but talk after realising what I had on my list of conversation topics.

I was hoping to keep Connor's attention and servility in answering my questions through keeping my tone light, breezy and chatty. I notice guys who might object to marking their sexual preference on an official form are quite happy to chat about how big their dick is with their mates down the pub.

Connor is no different.

I began as I meant to go on, asking “so what is this thing you've got on, exactly?”

He looked around, embarrassed, as his cheeks turned pink. “Um...it's, like, a sort of see-through plastic case sort of thing, which me dick goes in.”

“Oh...how's it work? Does it just go over the willy, or does it go over your nutsack too?”

Connor paused, and then looked around again, checking yet again that he wasn't being listened to in the busy coffee shop. “It, like, just goes over the, um...”

“Shaft?”

“...yeah.”

“Can you still do wee-wee in it?”

“Can I piss? Well, yeah, it's...it's got, sort of like, a hole in the end, where you piss out of.”

“Oh, I see...so, how's it stop you from cumming?”

He sighed loudly. “Man...this is uncomfortable for me.”

“What, the thing on your dick?”

“N-NO, the, the fucking conversation. Ju-just talk about something else.”

I put my hand on his own on the bannister. He flinched, but I ignored it; he pulled away, but I held his hand. “Mate, I don't want to, ok? So...again, how does it stop you from cumming?” I smiled as I added, “I don't understand.”

“Christ...well...you can't really touch yourself, and also it really fuckin hurts if you get a hard on. 'cos there's only enough room in it for when your soft, and as you get hard, well...there ain't enough room. And it hurts. Ok? Heard enough?”

“And you're a grower, are you?”

“What?”

“You're a grower? Your penis grows significantly when its hardens?”

“Um, I guess. I dunno...”

“How'd you clean it?”

“Clean what? The...the case?”

“Well, yeah, that's what I meant – but how'd you clean your dick, too, now that I think about it?”

He rolled his eyes; walked into that one. “Erm...the plastic, I guess you only properly clean it when it comes off. Can't really clean my dick, either, when the thing is on. Just sorta let water go over it in the shower.”

“You wear it in the shower?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, sort of...I, I ain't showered for a coupla days, 'cos the water makes me hard, and it...it hurts.”

I smiled, and hardened. Poor, dumb stinky Connor. Literally basting in his own precum. This was hardly how he'd envisioned spending his break away from active deployment.

“Ah. Do you make a lot of precum?”

“What? Fuck, Christ...”

“Precum? You know, the stuff your willy makes before you cum? Like, when your fucking?”

“I know what it fucking well is, these questions are just so personal...”

“Well, I just wondered how mucky your cock cage is. Like, some people produce precum when they're not even fully hard – now, if you were one of those, you could be leaking into that thing even though your not allowed to have a hardon. See what I'm saying?”

“Yes. I see what your saying. But the question is still-”

“So yes or no? It's nothing to be ashamed of, man. This guy's seriously screwing with you – it ain't your fault you can't control your dick any more.”

“I – ok, first, I do control my dick – I don't have someone taking me for a piss and shaking me off when I finish or anything,” give it time, I thought as he continued, “and I've just got to figure out a way to get him back. I mean...did, did you see him? Like, at all? I can't believe you didn't see him...”

“What can I say? He was wearing a hat. Honestly, I didn't even realise he'd put something on my table until he was off walking down the stairs. It was all over before I knew it'd begun.”

Innocent, me.

“He keeps giving little clues in his emails and stuff...saying he's going to some place, and whatever...but I think that's all bollocks. I dunno. I ain't really cut out for this sort of thing.”

“All that spunk in you can't help.”

“Excuse me?!?”

“If you don't cum for a while – like, a long while, long enough to develop an...accumulation, like what you have – it can be difficult to concentrate.”

“I see.”

“When was the last time you came?”

“Why'd you care?”

“Professional interest.”

I could tell Connor was now just humouring me; he found the conversation exceptionally awkward, and was probably fantasising right now about knocking my teeth out.

But I knew he wasn't going to do that.

He was like an angry Pitbull, which I'd trained to roll over so I could scratch his belly for him. He might not like it, but what was he gonna do? Walk off? No, no, no. I had something that mattered very much to him – the key to his growing reserves of spunk.

A ten minute conversation in exchange for that key was good deal.

“Ten...no, eleven? Yeah, eleven days ago, I think.”

“Yikes. That's a LOT of spunk. Bet you'd like to cum right now, huh?”

“Well, not RIGHT now, but I'll be glad when I get this thing off, yeah.”

“Is it like this in the army?”

He frowned, and chuckled. “No. In the army, you're allowed to cum whenever you want.”

I chuckled myself. “No, I know that. I mean, operational necessity and all that – I guess sometimes you go for a while without jacking off?”

“Not this long.”

“Well, today I guess you will, eh? Provided I give you that key, I mean.”

Connor breathed in deeply. “Yeah,” he said as he slowly nodded.

He got the message.

I took a sip of my coffee, now cold. “Can you wear underwear over this thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Any type of underwear?”

He shrugs. “I guess so. Haven't really compared.”

“Oh, so you prefer a particular type? What do you wear; boxers, briefs, what?”

“Boxers normally. But we wear special kit if we're in Afghanistan.”

“Ah, ok. What's your girlfriend say about all this?”

“She don't know.”

“Wow. How've you kept that from her?”

“By bein' a dickhead. Avoiding her and stuff.”

“That's a shame. I'm sure you both miss each other a great deal?”

“Well...I miss fucking her, yeah.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I bet you do. And I'm sure she misses getting fucked by you. What's your favourite position with her?”

“Is blowjob a position?”

I laugh again. It's almost as though we're friends. I get the feeling he's just doing a good impression of a friend, though. There's no warmth in his attitude; he's just being polite, and even that is only because of what I have.

This encourages me to keep going.

“You're wearing boxers now I take it?”

“Err, well, yeah...”

I shuffle around the table a bit so I'm directly opposite him.

“Okay, slouch down in your chair a bit, I just wanna feel this thing.”

“What?!”

“Just slouch down in your chair a bit! Christ, it's not a big fucking deal – you just told me your whole sexual history. I just wanna feel what this thing feels like.”

“Man, this is too risky-”

Hah, this kid was so fucking easy.

“You don't know anyone here, and it'll be over before you know it. I'll be really quick. You won't even feel anything. Now come on! I'd of done it by now if you'd just did it the first time!”

“No way, man...”

“I do have that key, remember? And that bloke's watching...he must be expecting something a bit kinky. Come on, just slouch down.”

Big hunky Connor craned his neck around in every direction before his wide torso steadily descended beneath the table, his thick legs opening to me as he slouched down in the chair.

I toed off the trainer from my right foot and quickly but firmly planted my foot in the crux between his legs, my heel digging into the balloon-shaped fleshy nutsack and my toes curling around the hard sheath his shaft was wrapped in.

He jumped back into his chair after a fraction of a second, and my foot returned to the floor. “I fuckin' felt that!”

“Don't be such a bloody crybaby.”

“And people saw.”

“Nobody saw.”

“Those people over there were looking, and now they're laughing.”

“I couldn't help but notice you're very well maintained down there.”

“What?!”

“I mean, I'm sure the cock-cage adds ten pounds, but even so, that's some pretty heavy-duty equipment your packing.”

“Man, I'm not-”

“Ok, let's go through how the rest of the day'll pan out for you. If you want to get the device off, first, you're gonna give me a handjob. And then, I'll take the cage off for you.”

Connor slammed his hand on the table and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. He balled his hands into fists, slid them behind his head, and looked at me through those cool eyes as he kept muttering “no, no, no...”

“Your attitude's not very charitable,” I remark unhelpfully.

“This...has fuck all to do with charity, and everything to do with me giving a handjob to some bloke I just met. A BLOKE. No, man. No way...”

“Ok.” I stood, collecting my things.

“NO! Please, wait, just, please, make me do something else. Ok? You, you said you'd try and help-”

“I am! This way, about an hour from now, you're dick'll be free and easy. That's the price. You paying it, or not?”

Chapter Three: The Assault

There was a lot more complaining from Connor, the big-dicked, half-cocked petulant child that he is.

I just ignored him. After all; adjustment is often painful for the more simple-minded (IE straight) among us and ultimately, he was getting a pretty good deal, wasn't he?

I could've asked for a lot worse.

I wondered what we must look like to passing shoppers – me, dressed in my jeans and AC/DC T-shirt, dragging this loutish, uncooperative brute round a shopping centre as if I were his mother.

The most obvious place to drag him to was the bathroom; but a shopping mall bathroom on a Saturday afternoon? Yuck.

We made our way across the fifth level to the glass elevator. What is it with shopping centres and glass elevators? As if they're trying to make you think you're in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory or something.

Anyway, we were the only ones to board the empty elevator on our level, and I pressed the button for the ground floor.

Connor leaned against the glass back wall of the elevator car as we trundled downward. Testing the waters, I perfunctorily slid my fingers under the waistband of his white trackies and red-banded Calvin Kleins, and pulled them both back away from his waist so I could peer down at the contents of his trousers. I got a good look at his restrained pink cock in its clear plastic tube, the sheathed glans bulging against the perspex at one end, and framing the lad's hairy ballsack beneath.

The slap of Connor hitting my hand away reverberated in the glass car as he stared at me with a disbelieving frown. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouted.

“Jesus, calm the fuck down,” I said, as if what I'd done was perfectly normal, “I just wondered what your cock looked like in that thing, is all.”

Hey, at least it was the truth.

“I ain't fuckin proud of it, dickhead,” he replied.

No I bet not, I thought. Just then the doors slid open and a family entered, ending our conversation there.

Even so, I relished openly looking at the front of his nylon-covered crotch, keeping him both unsettled and angry.

After a few moments, we were deposited on the bottom level, and we made our way to the car park.

I had parked in a quiet corner, where (I hoped) no one would come upon us, err, cumming.

We both got in the back of the car, and as soon as my door was closed, I pulled my jeans and boxers down my legs before saying to him, “right, off you go then.”

He looked at me beneath the cap and hood he still wore over his head, face aghast. “What do you mean, 'off you go'? That...that's it? We're doing it, are we?”

“What, do you want to get to know me first or something?”

“Well, fuck, Jesus Christ, no, but-”

“Maybe go to cinema with me, or the fare, where I could buy you some candy floss, something like that?”

“Fuck man, shut up for a minute, would you? Th-this is all just so sudden.”

“Listen, if it helps, let me say that what with you being so fucking fit and everything, and knowing that you've got that thing wrapped round your cock stopping you from getting a hardon, I guarantee that I won't last long.”

“Yeah, that doesn't help,” he replied dryly.

“Well, man, I dunno what to tell you. I mean, you want the key, right? So really, you've gotta earn it. Yes?”

“Man, please...”

I put my hand on his shoulder as a reassurance, but unable to stop myself from rubbing the hard muscle. “Listen mate. Just think. I could've asked for a LOT worse. Couldn't I? I mean, before thinking about how shitty giving a handjob might be, think about how shitty any of the other things I could've demanded from you might be.”

My sulky Pitbull slowly nodded. “'spose so.”

“Yeah, you do. So just treat my cock as a practice for when you wank yourself off later on, and get going.”

He spent another two minutes staring at my erect prick. I began to feel a little self-conscious.

Deciding he would respond well to some well-meaning but assertive guidance, I took his right hand – the one nearest to me – and slowly brought it over to my lap.

He looked away, but he didn't resist.

My big strong army lad flinched – and whimpered – when the tip of his forefinger impacted the white-hot shaft of my cock.

I slouched contentedly as I brought his hand further into my crotch, until the shaft of my organ rested in the palm of his hand.

As I used my other hand to physically curl each of his fat, rough fingers around my cock, he closed his eyes and started shaking his head.

You know when someone on a reality show is made to eat a bucket of crickets or a pair of kangaroo testicles? It was like that. Like, he was in his own world, praying for salvation.

I have honestly never seen anyone have quite such an allergic reaction to giving another person a hand-job...but I didn't let the awkwardness of his impending complete mental collapse stop me!

When I had wrapped his fingers around the shaft of my cock, I wrapped my hand around his bigger hand, and started moving it up, and down, making sure the calloused, well-worked pads of his fingers ran over the juicy knob on each upward stroke.

“So, I'm going to take my hand away now Connor,” I say reassuringly, “but you have to keep moving your hand like that, ok?”

He grumbled a low moan of ascent, his eyes still closed; his brain unattached.

I slowly removed my hand, and his hand still kept up the pace at precisely the same speed, as if he were a masturbating pentameter.

My right hand now moved to his knee, rubbing the white polyester material of his trackies briefly before moving onto the inside of his hard right thigh. The nature of sitting in the back of the crampt car meant that Connor's legs were splayed open; an ideal position for the lad to reveal his thus-far unmolested treasures to me.

“S-stop,” he whispered, “y-your g-gonna make me h-hard, man...”

Not taking no for an answer, my hand continued to massage the thickly corded muscle as it made its way up to the mass of sweaty straight meat between Connor's spread legs.

“N-no...” he feebly said again, his eyes squeezed shut.

I leaned over to him, slid my other hand behind the back of his hooded head, and comfortingly pulled his head into my shoulder as I sunk my face into the thickly smooth hoodie which covered his own shoulder.

He let out a yelp as I did this, no doubt in reaction to my right hand, which had just slid beneath his waistband and into the murky depths of his trackies, like a hunter-killer submarine seeking its prey.

The points of my fingers glided across the hot, soft cotton of his CK boxer-briefs until they ran into something hard.

But not hard like that; not flesh-hard. No, this was more...um...remote control hard. Playstation hard.

Unnaturally hard.

My hand ran along the plastic case covering his organ, before delving deeper, and digging triumphantly into the round yielding flesh and warm cotton exterior of the well-stocked ammo pouch between his muscular thighs.

I shushed him as he continued to whimper in reaction me continuing to explore his independently minded sex organsty.

His whimpers matured into elicit little animalistic barks of pain, whilst I breathed in the sickly sweet scent of his lynx deodorant and the more delicate, tart scents of socks and precum beneath.

Because of all this – because of the man, because of the stink, and out of unbridled respect for the Parachute Regiment, I came heavily, depositing string after string of my messy wet load over his big, straight hand.

He pulled away from my shoulder and gingerly pulled his hand away from my wilting cock, looking at it and the stains which adorned it as I still rooted around between his legs, my arm and hand a noticeable, obvious lump in his trackies, my fingers now swirling through the matted, sweaty carpet of fur which I had seen adorning his thighs on video, and which I could now feel for myself.

He went from looking at his hand to looking at me. “What...”

The hand which had previously been cradling my Pitbull's big thick skull moved to the hem of his hoodie, wrapping the material around his spunk-slick fingers, my hand pressing the crisp material into the clumps of juice on his hand.

“Why...did you...?”

Not wanting him to dwell too much on the situation, I extracted my hand from his trackies and slid down onto the floor, between his still spread thighs.

He sat there looking at me as I gripped the waistband and pulled both his trackies and white boxer-briefs down mid-thigh, revealing a thick bodied, big headed beast, desperately trying to escape its bonds – and failing.

“Shit man, please...” was all Connor said in protest when my pinky finger slipped through one of the holes to scratch at the sheathed head of his powerful, fused explosive.

The padlock preventing removal was located at the base of his prick, deep within the nest of a gnarled and unkempt pubic bush.

“Well,” I said, “I suppose this is the simple bit.”

Connor said nothing as I produced the all-important key.

I greatly enjoyed man-handling his sweaty armaments a little further, as I very slowly undid the padlock which bound his genitals to me.

He was slouched in the back seat of my car, head still generally obscured by his hood and hat, his legs pretty much as far spread as the trackies at his ankles would allow.

“Oops,” I said after five minutes of my fingers running through his swampy pubic bush and hefting his equally pungent unwashed ballsack, “think I've got the key the wrong way round. Wondered why it wasn't working! Hang on a minute.”

What with my fingers arousing the dormant scents contained within the lads genitals, as well as his heavily perspiring, hairy form producing a hell of a lot more, the humid environment of the car soon stank with the smell of Connor's cock and balls.

I said dismissively, “might I suggest when you get home, before having a wank, you perhaps consider having a shower? Your cock fucking reeks mate.”

Of course, I'd rather he do no such thing, but it kept Connor feeling sufficiently self-conscious to continue allowing me free reign over his genitals.

“Huzzah!” I shouted theatrically, breaking him out of his self-induced coma, and removing the padlock from Connor's crotch with one hand, whilst my other continued to tickle the hairs and finger the intricately ridged flesh of his sphere-shaped ballsack.

He let out a sigh of relief. “Oh thank fucking God. I thought I'd have to get a fuckin fireman to get me out of that thing.”

An interesting thought.

I chuckled as I slowly removed the snug, sweaty plastic cylinder from the lad's dick, which rapidly unfurled the instant it was free.

The air inside the car exploded with the release of eleven days worth of straight dick stink. I quite legitimately coughed slightly, causing Connor to sheepishly apologise.

I looked at his dick. Coated in shimmering spicy sweat, pink with a deep blue vein running along one side, and growing a little bit longer but much thinker and more menacing with each passing second as it reacts to sudden release - and sited just above that darkly hairy sphere of rippled flesh where he keeps his babies. Delightful.

He reached down to pull up his trackies but I, hypotised by the sight before me, moved to take his dick in-hand.

“Christ man, that's it, Ok? Play time's fuckin' over,” he said menacingly.

“Yeah, yeah, I know that, just...just, hang on a minute, I think I've spotted something,” I said.

Now, obviously, all I've spotted is a delightfully proportioned, girlie loving army dick I want to cuddle for a bit, but I clearly can't exactly tell him that.

“What?” he demands insistently, urgently.

Grasping for something - anything - to say, I suddenly remember in the back of my mind his email from earlier that day; might he be genuinely fearful of the state of his dick? I didn't have anything else to go on – but every lad is scared of something befalling their dick...and it would enable me to present myself as the sort of authority figure he would unquestioningly respect. Also, I quite fancied playing army doctor with the fit squaddie, anyway.

“Well now, Connor, I know you don't know this, but I'm, um, a doctor, and I think I may of spotted some damage.”

“DAMAGE?” he shouts, now terrified that his pride and joy has suffered some sort of injury.

“Just, just...just shut up for a minute, ok, and let me, um, check...”

“What sort of damage?”

“Well...” I slowly skin back the grenade-shaped head of his already half-hard prick, revealing some buxom glans, coloured a deep shade of purple, and perspiring heavily with a wet sheen coating the delicate flesh.

I carefully squeeze the head a couple of times, compelling a tiny bead of liquid to appear. The boy's spread thighs briefly tighten in response, but he says nothing.

“Is your dick head always this colour?” I ask, suddenly realising I need to complete my sentence.

“Yes,” he replies.

“Hmm,” I say, sounding worried, “I thought so. Yes, I'd better investigate a little further, I think.”

He frowns; a natural reaction to my sentences no longer making logical sense, but he remains pliant; like any good army boy, he does what the doctor says. My hand quickly establishes complete authority over his cocked rifle as I quickly yank his trackies and boxers down and over his slim white trainers, the boxers catching a couple of times on the blunt rubber of his shoes, but otherwise removed very quickly and without incident.

“Is this necessary?” he asks shakily, pushing himself up on an elbow, concern etched on his hard, uncompromising face.

“If it wasn't, I wouldn't be doing it Corporal,” I say, repeating something I'd heard on either Casualty or Holby City, I can't remember which, maintaining my position of authority.

On my knees.

Between his legs.

I then take a calf in each hand, and suddenly and quickly hoist his bottom half up into the air of my car.

He is unable to stop himself from sliding further down the seat, losing control of his own body as I continue to pull on his feet until he's fully on his back. His legs fly this way and that as he shouts “whoa, stop, fuck, what the fuck!”

Without releasing my grip of his flailing feet, I reply “Connor, I'm just doing a quick, rudimentary investigation. This is how they do check-ups at the hospital, ok? Calm down, please – you can either let me do it now, or you can go and see your GP about it. I'm sure that daft old codger would enjoy having a rummage round your bits and pieces.”

When I say that – and introduce the possibility of yet another person having to examine his genitals for him – his legs stop flailing.

And so that was how it came to be that in the car park of the city's biggest shopping mall on a busy Saturday afternoon, I had a 24 year old paratrooper on his back on the rear seat of my car.

Thick hoodie covering him from the waist up, naked from the waist down, each white trainered foot pointing skyward and resting on the headrests of the front seats; thick white sports socks poking out from the cuffs with a black Lacoste crocodile logo on each one.

My very own armed forces bitch, with his powerful, gentle body spread out across the expanse of my car's interior. I was where I wanted to be, between his lustily bevelled, lusciously muscular thighs, where I was ideally placed to both take in the sights and smells of his hunky frame, as well as exercise my hard earned right to control his exquisitely horny breeding equipment.

And of course, the name of the game was control. I might of given his cock an airing from its cage; let it stretch its legs and get some much needed exercise, but it was still my property, now.

The lad himself looked up, at the ceiling. The shadow cast by his thick hood and low cap gave him an enigmatically hard-edged, urban look, but with his closed eyes and occasional whimpers emerging from his fat pink lips, we both knew that he was no longer the one in control.

Of anything.

But he was scared, bless him.

I wanted to make him feel better.

My left hand absent mindedly ran along one hairy, oblique thigh as my right took the lead in examining him.

He was hard by now; having grown hard without any real stimulation from me. I put that down to horniness.

I began by sliding his loose, generous foreskin back and forward a few times; a droopy mass of skin which slid over the lad's purple dome, easy as pie.

“You have a bit of smegma here behind the head, Connor. I can smell it from here, in fact. Do you clean your genitals properly when your in the shower?”

“Yes! It's that fucking thing I had to wear!” his voice cracked a couple of times as he screamed his response at me.

I remained measured; professional. “Hmm. I see.”

As my thumb and fingers continued to tickle and agitate the poor lad's glans, now alive with that sexual itch, he put his forearm over his face, clearly uncomfortable with my impromptu, intimate medical exam.

When I was satisfied with his foreskin, I briefly sniffed my sour thumb and pulled him back fully, revealing the purple dome one more time and pulling his chunky launcher forward, so I could stare down his dark pisshole.

I squeezed the head a few times, puckering the unhappy soldier's happy, winking cumslit as my wide thumb reassuringly stroked the damp right flank of his purple dome.

The cords of muscle under my other hand tightened as first one, and then another translucent drop of musky laddish treacle appeared at his tip.

When his deep well was good and full of straight pre-slop, my index finger dipped into it a couple of times, pulling away a thick string of excitement for us both to take a good look at.

He wasn't looking.

“See?” I said, happily. “You do make a fair bit of precum! I thought you did when I saw you – that's why I asked man; you look like the type. Like the sort of lad who's got the whole 'breeding' thing down to a fine art.”

About a foot from his dick, the string broke.

I went back to play again, like a five year old with a brand new plastic fire station, unable to stay away; my finger circling the wide head briefly, forcing his sex rocket to burble up some more, so I could make another string.

As I pulled my finger away I remarked, “it's pretty thick, mate. Like syrup. Syrup which fucking stinks, though! Reckon I'll have to fumigate this car when I get your cock and balls out of it. Is your prejizz always this thick?”

He didn't respond, still keeping his arm over his mean face whilst I mercilessly toyed with his cock, testing the quality and quantity of his malodorous baby drool.

Pretty soon, I got bored of that too, so I ended that part of the examination.

I pulled his dick further toward me, so it was horizontal, before letting it 'thwack' against the hoodie covering his tummy.

Dribbles of pre began to stain it.

“Oh, hang on...” I pulled his dick back once more, but pushed up the front of his hoodie, revealing his hairy, defined stomach.

I allowed his dick to catapult against his stomach a couple more times, remarking, “good and hard...very stiff. But I suppose that's because you haven't cum in eleven days, right? Makes you harder then you normally would be.”

He didn't rise to my bait, instead asking, “is it over yet? Am I alright?”

“No, not yet,” I said definitively.

My left hand continued its soothing massage of the corded muscle coating his thigh as might right left his dick for the moment, and headed south, into the fetid climes of his dark, uncharted crotch.

He breathed in and tensed as my finger nails ran along the hairy, corrugated flesh which housed his nads, now drawn up and perfectly displayed between his muscular outstretched thighs.

The blunt edges of my finger delicately poked and prodded the cushioned walnuts within, and his foot nearly slipped when I brought up the heel of my hand to take the whole thing in my grasp, my claw like fingers digging into his mentally neutered, but physically resplendent, taut ballbag.

“When'd you start getting hair on your nuts,” I ask matter-of-factly.

Nothing.

Keeping my one hand on his nuts, I bring the other from his thigh to take charge of his dick.

I start stroking. Not quickly; slowly. Deliberately. Taking my time over it.

Each upward stroke is accompanied by a slow squeeze toward the tip; a gentle, exquisitely uncomforting, but oh-so-necessary corkscrew, chaffing his blighted glans wonderfully, and compelling him to quietly murmur in anguish.

Each down stroke is slow; purposeful, sliding the entirety of the protective covering from his head, and exposing his marbled dome to the air.

Only now does his arm move; his legs shuffle; he sits up and looks at me, “no,” he says forcefully; pathetically.

No? No?!? lol. Mate, we are beyond 'no', I think.

“What's the big deal,” I mutter, my hand speeding up as I work him over, to frig with his brain as well as his prick; scramble his logic as well as the pearled contents of his nuts. “You've had a hell of a day, champ; you should just sit back and let me take care of you.”

“I ain't ga-”

“-and besides, you gave me a handjob, remember? Least I can do to return the favour. Just let me run things for a bit, Corp.”

His head falls back, as his hands ball up into pointless fists.

“There we go,” I mutter. “Good boy, there we go,” my hand steadily accelerating the deliverance of his relief.

I perceive the front seats behind me moving forward; Connor is now pushing the big feet on the end of his powerful legs into the chairs.

I take this to be a good sign.

Talking is now over; his straight mental defences have crumbled, and he is singularly focussed on breeding my fist. The only sound in the car is loud clicking of his foreskin as it is manipulated over and under the desperately distraught, deeply purple head.

Six minutes. Maybe less. He doesn't last long.

When I feel his thickly weeping dick tighten, with his eyes once more closed, I remove my hand from his ballsack, and replace it with my tongue.

I swipe my slithering tongue across the furred surface like snake, my teeth gently digging into the supple flesh as I suck up the trooper's richly flavoured sex sweat, now generously coating his sticky, unwashed nutsack.

As I do so, with my nose pushing into the base of his testosterone-packed bone, the explosive charge deep within him triggers an earth-shattering sub-surface detonation as projectile after steaming, thick projectile of squaddie stuffing is fired into orbit.

The first gummy blob flies gracefully through the air and strikes the back seat of my car, staining the dark upholstery; the second hits his chin, and after one streaks across the chest of his grey hoodie, his remaining drippings decorate his hairy tummy, his shaft and his wet, stale pubes.

He goes to get up.

But it's difficult; his whorish position does not allow an easy getaway.

It's no trouble at all for me to sink my hand into the slack muscle of his right pec and intone, 'stay'.

He meekly stays where he is whilst I suck up the aromatically fragrant, laddish gravy from his firm stomach; my tongue separating and sucking up my big little warrior's deliciousness from each greasy, matted follicle of hair.

I descend into the fetid badlands of his wild and musky pubic bush; I stop briefly as my senses are overwhelmed by the pure, undiluted stink of him, concentrated in the dank swamp at the base of his prick.

My mouth, already smeared with his sexual stickiness, hoovers up oily clumps of sauce from his dirty pubes whilst my hand contentedly scratches the built, hairy belly of my now pliant and supine Pitbull.

His docility does not remain indefinitely, however.

After five minutes of investigating his bush with my face, in which time I've also managed to surreptitiously clean his softening tubesteak of his cooling, richly textured babysauce, he pushes me off, quite hard.

He doesn't want to play anymore.

“That's enough,” he mumbles. “This ain't...this ain't gonna be...a thing. Or anything. Don't talk to me again, if you see me. An' if you tell anyone...anyone...I'll break your fuckin' legs.”

Adjustment is often painful for the more simple-minded.

I nod. “Sure.”

I produce the cock cage, and go to put it on him.

He grabs my hand. “What do you think your doing?”

His eyes slice straight through me, knocking me to the floor.

I answer as though its obvious. “Putting this back on. The...the letter, said I had to? What, you didn't know? You were supposed to...um...do your business – a bit of relief, like...and then, well, it goes back on.”

He nods slowly, not taking his eyes off me. “Yeah. Well, I think I'll take that.”

He speaks in an assertive, aggressive manner which makes me wonder if pushing this is a good idea.

“B-but the letter-”

He begins to crush my hand within his own as he says, “I'm taking this off you now.”

“But-”

“I THINK,” he shouts, “I've earned it. Don't you? And this isn't a fucking discussion.”

He slips the cage into his pocket, leaving me with the padlock and its key in my own pocket.

Connor takes off his stained hoodie, revealing his well built upper body, and leaves the car without further word.

I'm pissed off. He got the better of me, and that...that, I could not take. Some dopey straight thug; who the fuck does he think he is?! As I reached for the digital camera and turned off its camcorder, I determined to make him pay.

Pay, big.

Chapter Four: Domination

I decided not to contact Connor for the rest of the weekend; let him and his swinging cock have some alone time; let Connor have a go at being a man again.

On the Monday, I sent him an email, striking a distinctly different tone from that adopted previously.

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: The Weekend

Hello Connor. I have some good news, and some bad news. The good news is that you have passed the first and the second test. You are halfway to getting your life back.

Congratulations.

The bad news is that you compelled that gentleman to break the rules I had laid down in my letter to him. I know this, because I was videoing the action from a nearby car. It's amazing how quickly camera technology has moved on in recent years – the quality and crispness of the images you can now achieve (in quite challenging conditions) is incredible, isn't it?

Now, you know what you did, and we both know why you did it. I won't focus on that. Instead, let me ask this: did you honestly think you could deceive me? You, one of Her Majesty's Most Loyal and Leal Terriers, whose intelligence is entirely devoted to the various ways you can kill something or break into a girl's pussy, deceive me, the fellow who got you to masturbate on camera whilst wearing your mother's own underwear, and give another guy a handjob in a car park? For free?!

I am offended. Not at the act of defiance itself, but at the implication behind it: that you honestly thought you could outwit me.

I want to make something completely, crystal clear to you: I have accounted for every eventuality. Whilst you may think otherwise, know that your every action has been determined by me, with the 'choice' I've always presented to you in terms of either cooperating or walking being wholly illusionary; acting to smooth things over to ensure your heterosexual compliance in doing some pretty gay shit – compliance which I know will be forthcoming, because you have no choice. You've NEVER had a choice. From that first email, your perception of the 'options' available to you has been moulded by me. Do you understand? It's not fucking luck that I have a video of you jacking off, Connor – it was preplanned, by me.

I can also get a mouse to eat cheese, or a dog to fuck the leg of my postman; the principles in both instances are the same as those I've applied in my dealings with you, Connor.

I have decided to rejig the game a little bit. I have determined that we can no longer conduct our business as gentlemen, each trusting in the assertions and activities of the other – you are clearly a little boy, and like all little boys, you require the implementation of rigid, unmoving boundaries, which will never be crossed by yourself for fear of the consequences.

These boundaries are coming into effect retroactively, with a punishment now being administered for your transgression over the weekend.

The punishment is harsh. It is harsh, in the hope that no such punishment will have to be applied again. It is harsh, in the hope that you learn: learn the rules, learn your boundaries, and learn to stay confined within them.

Like all boys, you will be tempted to stray; like most boys, you will learn not to.

Your punishment, which shall also suffice as your test of courage, is as follows. You are to get your brother to reattach your cock cage for you. You are to film this. You are to send the film to me.

What you say to get him to do it is of no concern to me.

I get up tomorrow at 7am. If I do not see the video waiting for me in my inbox, I myself will administer a punishment against you, in person. I am not talking about releasing videos or pictures; this will be something against you, personally. After this punishment, you will still be required to comply with my directive, or you will face further, harsher punishment.

So I advise you to comply now, rather than pontificate beyond the deadline, receive your punishment(s), and then reluctantly comply. You should not to allow things to escalate beyond this one request. I have already decided what the punishment for failure shall be, and you will not like it.

-Ben.

The response came later that evening.

From: “reap” <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

To: <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

Subject: RE: The Weekend

lol u r insan thatll neva happan

and ur gonna punish me personally lmfao id lik to se u fukin try if i eva find out who u r il destroy u

-Sent from my iPhone

Destroy me. Hehehe. I couldn't help but chuckle.

From: “Ben Dover” <Ben_Dover4me2_69u@hotmail.co.uk>

To: <silvareapa_91@o2.co.uk>

Subject: RE: The Weekend

It is now 20:11. You have until 7am to meet the demand.

-Ben

After that, I heard nothing. I went to bed that evening not really expecting to see the video when I got up the next day.

Connor would require a demonstration of my power; it was only to be expected.

I'll give him a demonstration. Now as you know, I'm not the cocky sort – not at all – but as I was drifting off to sleep, I thought that maybe, just maybe, my punishment will break him; prompt a collapse in resistance, an acceptance of his subservience – and an acceptance of the fact that he liked it; wanted it; needed it.

Destroy me. I couldn't help myself; lying in bed, in the dark, on my own, I once again laughed out loud.

Sure enough, when I checked my emails whilst brushing my teeth the next day – nothing.

Obviously during the day on Monday, I couldn't really do a whole lot. But that was fine; my punishment was designed to take place outside of school hours.

Very much outside of school hours.

I arrived at the house at around 2am.

I slid the spare key Len and Mary had given me years ago into the Yale lock of the front door, turned and entered the house before quietly shutting the door behind me.

I was thankful that the darkness of the hour was not absolute; downstairs was shrouded in darkness, but I saw light emanating from the upstairs landing, illuminating the stairs for me and allowing me to quietly move up to the sleeping quarters of the house.

The doors to the parent's bedroom immediately greeted me when I got upstairs, with the door to Connor's bedroom at the end of a short hallway on the left, opposite a spare room and beside the bathroom.

I moved down the hallway, get what I wanted from the bathroom, and opened the wooden door to Connor's room – easily identifiable from its Parachute Regiment sticker plastered on the front, sliding through a crack in the door and quickly and quietly closing it behind me.

A thin sliver of light from the street lighting broke through the curtains draping the large window dominating one wall, providing the merest hint of the rooms contents The room was perceptibly large. A wooden table was placed in one corner; the bed, along the opposite wall. I could see large posters a few things in frames decorating the walls, but in the poor light, they were impossible to identify.

I could make out a large, inert mass on the bed, sleeping and blissfully unaware of my presence.

I reached into my bag, and extracted a torch with a square of red transparent plastic over the end; when I switched it on, the room was bathed in a sombre red which would not awaken the sleeping beast I was seeking to tame.

I moved to stand beside the bed. I looked briefly at Connor's peaceful face before I reached into my bag and removed a tiny bottle of chloroform and a piece of cloth.

Dampening the cloth with the chloroform, I knelt beside him and gently pushed the cloth over his mouth and nose for a couple of long minutes. He didn't wake; presuming he'd been knocked out successfully, he should just wake up normally the next day.

There was no visible reaction from him, but as I moved over to the light switch, I said a little prayer in hoping that the anaesthetic has done its job.

With the flick of a switch, the room was illuminated by the harsher white light, causing me to briefly squint, but with Connor continuing to sleep soundly.

I turned the torch off, and pulled the covers from the lad's finely sculpted body, releasing the warm, musky bed smell of him into the air.

“You,” I whisper to myself, “are one good lookin' boy.”

Connor was lying on his side, his lower leg straight, the upper leg pulled up over it.

He was wearing brightly coloured green and grey polka dot boxers with 'PUMA' printed on the waistband. The shorts were tight, with one side containing his gargantuan thighs, whilst the other cupped his supple backside.

I demurely sat on the bed, so I could softly run my hand across the upper, obliquely curved butt-cheek, and then beyond his sexy designer undies to the rotund, hairy thigh it is attached to.

He is powerful. Certainly, more powerful than me. But I am still seething with rage that he managed to dominate me at the end of our last encounter; that I allowed events to twist like that, and that I had no response to it.

Now, he is weak. And I intend to use his weakness to my advantage: like any senior officer, when I see rebellion in one of my hotheaded, testosterone-fuelled squaddies, I must correct it.

I take a picture of my hand on his boxered ass, softly rubbing it as if it were a meaty genie lamp. I briefly slide my hand to the rough muscle plastered across his upper leg, before pulling myself away from him and getting to work.

First, I position his body: I straighten his fit, short legs, and roll him over, so he is sleeping on his stomach, displaying his finely built arse in all its fickle finery.

I straddle Connor's legs, beneath the steep curve of his bum.

I take a picture.

Just a little taste, I think. I begin kissing the top of his finely etched thigh; little gentle things; a recognition of the human artistry his body represents. My kisses move along the curved expanse of his leg, taking in the delights of each hairy ripple and each subconscious flex. As is my way, however, I became a little more insistent as the fuck lust overtook me. My tongue – which has a history of getting me into trouble – couldn't help but lick the boy's leg, lapping at the fur and the sweat. Eager to take in more of him, my mouth glided – quite naturally, I assure you - to his arse, still covered in a thin layer of warm, comforting cotton. I plant more gentle kisses along the smooth surface as I rapidly make my way to the summit – along with the occasional bite; inhuman, animalistic bites; unnecessary, really; where I would sink my teeth into the supple flesh of his buttocks, through his undies, my teeth wrestling with and gnawing at the soldier's fit arse.

My hand quickly slid the right hem of his shorts upward, stretching the handily yielding fabric so I could acquire direct access to the trooper's tasty ass flesh.

My lips quickly latched onto the dangerously exposed buttock, my hand sliding the fabric ever further north, just ahead of my roving mouth which was now chewing on the hairy meat of his perfectly curved, deliciously hardened behind.

The slumbering squaddie reacted by subconsciously tensing his arse, his flesh becoming rough-hewn granite in my mouth, but he was otherwise unable to prevent the continuing degradation and rapidly escalating violation of his fit, killer body.

I soon released a sweaty chunk of bum-flesh from my mouth so I could pull my face away from the graceful, well-lit uplands of his cheeks and move toward the dark jungle ravine at his centre, forcing the fabric to now stretch obscenely, and lay bear his entire right ass-cheek and the lower quadrant of his crack to my lecherous eyes.

I smashed his outer defence perimeter and prised his over-protective cheeks apart to for the first time stare upon his ruddy, sweaty arsehole (replete with desert camouflage for Connor's next visit to Helmand) and located deep within the chasm of his buttocks, framed by a disorganised forest of dirty, dark hairs.

I then spent a few minutes covertly gorging myself on the conked out corporal's defenceless straight gash, my tongue advancing deeply behind his puckered lines, and into the tropical interior; annoyed at how darkly good he tasted, knowing it meant I would remain a slave to sexual charms he himself probably didn't know he possessed.

Once his pit was slick with saliva, and once I'd satisfied myself (for the moment), I gave his hole one last, lingering french kiss (with lots of tongue), and stepped back.

I briefly licked my index finger before perfunctorially sliding it into his hole, my roving digit pushing forward despite resistance to spear the straight lad's unaware guts. I slowly thrusted in, and out, in, and out. “Gotta keep yer panties outta the way, bitch,” I whispered as my finger kept his shorts from sliding back to recover his hole as I leaned back to my bag of tricks and retrieved his toothbrush.

“Well I hope you enjoyed that,” I muttered under my breath, “because you're gonna fucking hate this.” Applying a little lubricant, I used one hand to separate the muscular cheeks I had just made olfactory love to, and then...well, I did the nasty on him.

With his own toothbrush.

Getting the sharp, stiff bristles past his tight, straight sphincter was challenging. But you know, if you just keep pushing...

Piercing the lad's firm, defensive rectum was heralded by a murmured grunt from the the dreaming desert warrior, and I celebrated by taking a picture with just the prickly bristles of the brush in his ass – 'stage one'.

Then, it was just a case of slowly easing it home. I took special care in making sure I lodged the bristles on the end – which were still coated with the residue of subtly cooling, profoundly irritating menthol - deep in his soft, virginal insides.

I only relented once a few inches remained visible beyond the eminence of his hardened glutes.

And then I leaned back, and I smiled at the sight of the plastic, bright blue, gently curved handle of the toothbrush poking out from the depths of his arse, like a periscope jutting out above the waterline.

Knowing that the rest of it was violating his fiercely protected straight arsehole made me smile, too.

Removing myself from his body, I moved to the other end of him and turned his head, so it was on its side and facing toward me.

Then I stood close to him and begin to masturbate.

I took a nice picture – an artistic shot, really – of my hand, my dick and his face, all in the same shot.

I waited until a thick bead of precum began to descend from my cock onto his upper lip before taking the shot.

I find the situation hotter than anything I can look at around me, but when I look at the toothbrush peeking out from between the muscular army lad's toned cheeks, I chuckle, and cum.

Which in-of-itself is a pretty fucking weird experience, let me assure you.

But the oddness of it all is quickly overtaken by pleasure, as pellets of spunk strike Connor's peacefully sleeping face, mainly on his bare cheek, but also coating his slumbering eyebrows with thick white droplets.

I release my cock and use my fingers to slide some of the congealed excitement across his face, coating his straight fat lips and his flared nostrils with my greasy ejaculate.

I carefully position the nozzle of my cock at his bared ear, and summon up that one last globule of jizz you always find after cumming, and watch it slide down his acoustic cavity...a little surprise for him to find later on.

With my cock still lying across his face and into his ear, I take a picture.

I put my cock away as I reach for my bag once more. Retrieving the black, permanent marker pen, I write on his forehead 'MUM: because I'm a naughty little paratrooper, I need a new toothbrush and an enema'.

I take a picture.

I finish my visit to Connor by carefully returning his boxer-shorts back to where they were; sliding the now loose, overstretched fabric over the hump of his rump, taking the time to cup his cheeks one last time, before pulling the material away from his dark, defiled horizon so I can manoeuvre past the Oral-B toothbrush poking above it. One done I step back, looking at how the green/grey shorts are now tented by the blunted point of his butt-lodged toothbrush.

Oh, and I take a picture.

I then return the duvet over him, making sure it doesn't distort the liquid deposit I'd left for him to find on his face.

I remember at the last minute the most important thing – I remove the little padlock from my pocket, the one which I had been prevented from affixing to his groin that day in the parking lot, and leave it on the little wooden table in the corner.

And with that, I quietly leave Connor's bedroom, and walk past the bedroom of his two sleeping parents.

I go home, and get some sleep, wondering what the next day will bring.

Qualitatively

Chapter Five: Squaddie In Full Retreat

“Hi, Connor.” I greeted him warmly on his own doorstep. After all, I wouldn't want our neighbours to think anything untoward.

He was dressed as instructed, in a pair of standard-issue tan camouflage DPM combat trousers; made of a thick synthetic material which made them baggy and heavy,. He wore nothing above the waist but his circular, regulation dog tags around his thick neck, so I was afforded another look at the rugged carpeted mountain range of his chest.

He stared at me with bleary, squinting eyes, lazily scratching one firm, pronounced pec as he did so. “What...you're the dude from the shopping centre? What the fuck are you doing here?! I thought I said...”

He had obviously just been awoken by my door knocking. Given that it was 7am on a Saturday morning, this was to be expected. I guess it could also explain the slowness of his mind.

“Yeah, I am the dude from the shopping centre. I'm also the guy who's been sending those emails. Funny how things work out, isn't it? How about if I come inside so we can chat about it?”

He folded his arms across his chest, looking up at me with a look of smug self-satisfaction. “Well, the truth fucking comes out. Reckon you're pretty fucking smart, don't you? Coming out a few days before I go back on deployment. Do you have any idea who you're messing with? I could make your life hell, mate, twenty-four seven hell, three hundred and sixty days a year.”

I smiled and nodded. “Yes. But you won't be doing that, will you? Because we're both having so much fun, aren't we?”

“Fun?! You fuckin-”

“How about,” I say a little more loudly, “instead of idly arguing about this on your doorstep, I come inside?”

Before he could answer, I barged past him into the house. Despite his physical advantage over me, he made no effort to stop me.

He was rapidly becoming the big, gentle pussy of my dreams.

It hadn't been easy to get to this point. After waking up with a toothbrush up his ass and cum on his face, Connor's immediate reaction was to call the police. He threatened me with that, quite a few times.

Which just made me laugh, really. This big tough guy – with 'friends' who could 'sort me out', threatening to get the law on me. Fucking pathetic. But it was a good sign – it meant he was desperate.

And what do you do when a straight lad is desperate? Why you give him absolutely no compromise whatsoever, of course. I mean, fuck. You've basically won.

As time passed, and the nature of the situation facing him sunk in – the video I had, the pictures I had, my ability to 'get to him' – after he fully understood and conceptualised all that in his slow little brain, his indignation was rapidly replaced with the subservience he commonly provided to superiors in the Forces.

Like all these big butch army lads, he's a simple-minded giant who, when the chips are down and after you've pissed on him enough, will meekly lie down and do what he's told.

It was a week since he'd sent me the video of his brother reapplying his little dick holder for him; in his brother's room, trackies and boxers round his thighs, whilst his spectacled teenage swot of a brother sat in a computer chair before him, taking his sweet time putting the hellish sleeve back over him.

I doubted the brother was attracted to big Connor, but I was willing to bet that he certainly appreciated the reversal in power – perhaps even to the extent that it caused a little stirring.

After he was tethered, this raised an obvious question for him – how could he get it off?

Naturally, I had a solution for him. By getting his brother to do the deed, he had passed his third test. Only one more to go. I'll pop round when the family's away. Then maybe you'll be able to convince me to take it off, I taunted.

When he realised that his device wouldn't be coming off until he managed to get his entire family out the house, it quickly became his pet project to get them out of the house as soon as possible.

And here we are.

I walk through the house to the large kitchen, where I sit in one of the wooden chairs lining the breakfast table.

Connor groggily comes in after me, his face hardened into a scowl. “Well thanks for coming indoors; 'cos now I'm gonna break every bone in your body.”

I smiled. “I can see the realisation of who I am has scrambled your circuits a little bit, but let's remain rational here. As stupid as you are, Connor, you're not so stupid that you'd risk hurting me. Let's just remind ourselves what I have on file, shall we? I have a video of you masturbating in your mother's underwear, a video of you giving me a handjob in the back seat of a car, a video of you getting your brother to attach a chastity device to your own penis. I also have still images of you breaking the law – yes, I forgot to delete those, sorry. Oh, and I have images of you being sodomised with your own toothbrush, and with your face covered in spunk. Let's briefly think - using our inside voices, because it's still quite early and I'd rather avoid the usual theatrics, what would follow if that material was made public. And then, Connor, how about if we drop the whole fucking pretence that you have any say – ANY say at all – over what happens here today. Ok?”

“Materials which you can't do anything with, if your dead,” he said ridiculously.

I laughed. “Good point. And you're certainly capable of that, and I have no doubt that one man has killed another over matters a lot more trifling than these. But who's to say that the material is just idly sitting on my hard drive? Maybe I've left my home computer on, with an email application left open which will send a particular email to a particular set of addresses at a particular time, unless I get home and stop it before then. Or maybe it's not even on my computer any more; maybe I've burned the whole thing to a DVD, put in a parcel and left it at a post-office, waiting to be sent to a particular address in Monday's post – unless I get to the post-office before then, make sure I see the same old dear I'd spoken to when I first visited, and tell her I've made a terrible mistake, begging her to let me have the envelope back. Yeah, maybe I did that. OR, maybe I've put the whole thing in a parcel, and left it outside the main gate at your brother's college, with his name on the front – come Monday, it'll no doubt be handed over to him by confused staff...provided I don't go and retrieve it before the college opens on Monday, of course. Or maybe, Connor, maybe there's no fucking intricate plan at all – maybe I've just left my computer on, with one of the videos playing on a loop beside an open text document detailing what the video is and where I've gone today, for my next of kin to find.”

Connor stood there, speechless. I continued, “here's the thing, Connor. You're good with your hands, and I have no doubt you're an excellent Corp, but you're also a fucking idiot. No no, don't start arguing with me – you know that yourself. You know your brain isn't meant for this sort of low, dishonourable skulduggery, so just quietly admit defeat, and take off your fucking trousers, ok?”

“WHAT?”

“I said, just admit defeat – allow it to wash over you; to become a thing of the past, and resolve to get this one day – THIS ONE FUCKING DAY – over and done with, because if you do what you're told, then when you go to sleep tonight, you'll be free. Now, isn't that worth spending one day with someone else in charge?”

He gulped, and spoke quietly. “Yes. I get that. I was reacting to the 'take your trousers off' bit-”

“I mean, every day you're on deployment, someone else is in fucking charge, so what's the big deal? The only difference is that today, that person is me. And the first thing I'm telling you to do is take off your trousers. So fucking get on with it.”

“This is fuc-”

“If you have a problem, Connor, just say. Please, just fucking say. And I'll leave, and you can reap the whirlwind after certain people get to see some certain videos and images. But really, that'd be a shame, wouldn't it? To get so close to the end; to compromise yourself so fully and so explicitly – remember when you were in my car, legs in the air whilst I drained your balls for you? Or when your brother put your sweaty little cup on? It'd be a shame if all that was for naught. If, after all that, you end up in a situation no different from what would've happened if you'd just ignored that first email and kept on seeing your mates and shagging your girlfriend. Still, your choice. Mate.”

I waited for ten seconds or so, relishing the inevitable silence.

Then, I stood.

“Oh I see,” I said, as if hit by a sudden epiphany. “I get it, Corp. I see what the issue is. Heheh. You and your fucking pride.” I took the few steps necessary so I was standing immediately before him. “It's fine, Corp. I'll, um, 'force' you to do it, shall I?”

I chuckled as I fell to my knees. He moved to take a few steps back but he was constrained by my arms, which wrapped themselves around his fit legs before I mashed by face into the heavy material of his combat trousers, inhaling the intoxicating bed stink of army boy's demure sex junk.

I spend a few moments snorting around his sweaty under-carriage, his taught ball sack barely discernible through the thick trousers, but the laddish perfume he was exuding – particularly now, what with the weirdness of the situation causing him to perspire delightfully - was more noticeable, and that was what my pointy nose, now nudging into the ridged seam lining the depths of his crutch, was after.

He defensively held his arms up, as if he were afraid of touching me. “Jesus Christ, fuck, that's disgusting, man,” he whispers, but he doesn't go to move me.

My hand slide up, over his rounded bottom, to his waistband. My face still burrowed in his groin, I forcefully pulled apart the Velcro straps, and pulled my face away from him so I could yank the heavy trousers down his hairy legs.

His cock was framed in his boxers, and whilst he was still soft, his sheath caused an un-natural lump in them. “Don't,” he said, as if warning me.

I chuckled. “Don't worry, Corp. I have your best interests at heart.”

I carefully handled his bony ankles and fleshy lower legs whilst he stood there like a lemon, allowing me to remove the trousers from his feet. After removing them, I wanted very much to return to his groin, but that wasn't part of the plan.

I stood up, and returned to my seat at the kitchen table, so I could look him over as he stood before me. His hands protectively shielded the front of his tight grey boxer-briefs from view, but I enjoyed gazing once more upon his contoured legs, darkly furred and finely developed from the untold number of patrols and engagements in the hinterlands of Asia.

“Good,” I said approvingly. “Very good. I didn't get a good look at you when you were in the back of my car, so you'll have to forgive me if I have a little look'see now.”

He opted to just look at the wall opposite, his grey eyes unresponsive as I humiliatingly stared at him as if he were livestock.

Making a swirling motion with my hand I instructed, “twirl round so I can see the other side, good boy.”

I could see his eyes roll as he slowly spun on his ankle-socked heels, and look up at the ceiling as he stood facing away from me.

Of course, this was completely unnecessary – I'd seen every inch of his body on video, and as for his ass...well, I'd become more than acquainted with that part of him whilst he was peacefully in the land of nod. But it helped establish the groundwork for our day together; normalise him to it all, and set the tone for how things were going to progress.

It was important that he knew his place: that he understood the chain of command whenever he was off deployment. Part of this involved speaking to him as if he were a ten year old. This is because, whilst he is a surly straight lad with a straight lad's not inconsiderable sexually-derived needs, I knew it'd be easier to get him to surrender his needs to my authority after I've laced our sex together with a strong dose of infantilism; get him to associate good sex with an absence of control on his part.

After a couple of excruciating minutes, I said, “okie dokie, that'll do for now. Why don't you make some breakfast for the two of us.”

Connor moved quickly to put his trousers back on, before I admonished him with “Connor! What did I just say about doing what you're told? You can put your trousers on when I say, and not before.”

My good little soldier slowly stood upright, a look of resigned indignation on his face. “Ok,” he said slowly, his jaw fixed and his teeth grating with irritation, “fine. What do you want for breakfast, Sir?”

“What have you got, Corp?”

“Nothing,” he quickly replied.

I smiled. “I see. How about bread? Do you have that, and the ability to make fire? If so, we'll have some toast.”

“I don't want anything.”

“You're going to make yourself some toast, you're going to sit at this table, and you're going to fucking eat it.”

His jaw clenched with frustration, but he didn't object. “Right.” He stood and moved over to a cupboard.

I watched his buttocks ripple within the snug confines of his boxers as he moved around the kitchen to silently make my breakfast.

I stood and moved to make myself a cup of tea, but I also made him one, because I'm nice like that.

Given its simplicity, breakfast wasn't long in coming, and after a few minutes, I was sat at the table with two uninspiring slices of toast before me, both of which possessed the consistency and colour of slate tiles.

As I spread margarine on the toast, Connor slammed his own plate onto the table opposite me.

He came toward me for his cup of tea, which I had placed beside my own, where I was sitting at the breakfast table.

As he picked it up and moved away I said quietly, “and where do you think you're going?”

He turned. “What?”

I looked up at him. “I said, where do you think you're going?”

“I'm...going to sit down?”

“Did I tell you to sit down?”

“Are you supposed to?”

I sighed. “You're not getting this, are you? Put that cup down, back where it was, get your plate, and bring it over here.”

Connor huffily slammed his cup down, tea spilling over onto the table as he did so, and picked up his plate from the other side of the table, and walked back, putting it down to one side, near the vacant chair closest to me.

After scraping margarine and marmalade on my toast, I took his plate from him, and put it beside my own.

I pushed my chair away from the table slightly, put my hands on his muscular, boxered hips and manoeuvred him closer to the table, so he was between me and my 'breakfast'. He frowned with concern as I spun him around so he was facing away from me, and toward the table.

He sighed. “You're not gonna do anything to my arse are you?”

With my hands still on his hips, I brought him down so he was sitting on my left knee, the seam of his arsecrack running along the centre of my trousered thigh.

Surprised at my actions, he leaned forward, so he was sitting on me in a most peculiar fashion with his hands on his knees; almost squatting.

Knowing it'd be bad for his posture – something which matters a great deal in the Army - I wrapped my left arm around around his wide chest and planted my hand on his manly right pec, so I could pull him back toward me.

He was now leaning against me, unable to stop his legs from spreading and perching on socked tippy-toes (so his bulky but little body could maintain stability whilst perched on my thigh) and inadvertently opening up the entire front half of his short, developed body to my roving hand.

My hand didn't rove just yet, however.

After he'd said, quite predictably, “you're fucking pathetic,” I reached for the knife and started spreading margarine on his own toast, followed by a healthy dollop of orange marmalade.

I cut his toast into triangles.

My left arm then returned to its prior position, curled around his flank with my hand planted on his mature pectoral muscle.

With my right I took a bite from my toast, whilst my left gently scratched the fur coating his upper body. I would occasionally twist the tastily erect bullet-like nipple, but generally my hand would just glide against the big boy's bestial chest hair, my fingers luxuriating in the dense strands of manly shag which covered him so completely.

After I had finished one slice of toast, I reached for one of his triangles with the same hand.

I held it up to his mouth for a few, long seconds, my other hand continuing to soothingly scratch and stroke the centre of his sternum. Eventually, I heard his lungs expel their contents before he meekly dipped his head to take a little bite.

“Good boy,” I said, my hand patting him on the chest before slowly scratching lower across the expanse of his rippled chest and down to his ridged stomach.

He proceeded to take another bite of toast.

Neither of us spoke to the other, but the humiliation was clearly affecting him; the big kid was beginning to stink of sticky perspiration, and whenever his mouth was full of toast, he would nervously chomp it down, his lips sticky with butter and marmalade, whilst breathing heavily through his flared nostrils.

The tips of my fingers feathered and fluttered across the lad's hairy stomach, testing the stiffness of the granite muscle located there, and detecting subtle surface quakes from the hyperventilation occurring far beneath the surface.

After a few moments, my hand descended further south, the fingers of my hand making contact with the hardened plastic tube still affixed to his stout, thick willy.

Through his boxers, my fingers glided along the tube, running over the stolid hump at the end before descending further down to cup his far more yielding, sensitively swollen bollocks.

I quietly jiggled and yanked his fattened nuts as I fed him, his legs still lewdly spread, a little bit unable, and a little bit unwilling, to stop me.

But like a true, obtusely proud warrior, there was still some fight in him, with his hand rising to take hold of my wrist as I traversed the rugged terrain of his hearty gonads.

“Down,” I whispered when I saw his hand move for mine.

“DOWN” I said more loudly, when his hand continued to move, albeit more slowly.

“DOWN!” I said loudest of all when his hand briefly stopped, unsure of how to proceed; his brain eager to do what its told, but also pushed by fear to try and stop me. His hand moved briefly back to his side, but then forward again, torn between the two. Finally, he spoke, not with a tone of defiance, but with one of submission.

“Please mate,” he moaned, “it fuckin hurts when I get hard. Please, it fuckin' kills.”

“Shall I take it off for you?”

He sighed loudly. “Does everything have to be so fuckin' gay with you? Just...man, IT HURTS, ok? Just stop fucking hurting me.”

I patted his crotch reassuringly. “Okie dokie.”

I pull the waistband of his shorts away from his stomach, and hook it behind the lad's hefty, rounded munitions dump beneath his prick; the impressive weight and girth of his sack serving to push his equipment forward and up, as if he were presenting for me.

I keep the fingers of one hand on his sack, tracing the thickly rippled skin and the dark strands which coat it.

With the other, I retrieve the key, and undo his little padlock before his fighting erection can do any more damage, carefully removing the sheath from his organ, his stump once more unsnarling, bouncing and waving merrily, as if celebrating its new-found freedom.

The lad exhaled and looked up at the ceiling in relief.

His cock grows rapidly now it is free, my fingers placing the warm sheath on the table as I reach for more toast. He cranes his neck when I put it close to his mouth, “fuck off,” he growls. “I ain't hungry.”

“Now come on,” I say pleasantly, “you have to finish your breakfast so you can grow up big and strong,” the fingers of my other hand continue to deftly roll and massage the snug, drawn-up nutsack between the mature trooper's spread legs.

He sighs and shakes his head, wishing the whole thing would just go away. “Young man, there are children starving in Africa,” I say, “now eat it up. Eat, or I'll have to stop doing nice things to your sack, and start doing nasty things to it.”

He quickly takes a gigantic bite from the food, in an effort to get the exercise over with quickly.

As he chews, my fingers briefly leave his damp baby-makers so I can take a sip of tea.

Afterwards, I pick up his cup, taking care to ensure my fingers, slick with his ball sweat, don't slip whilst holding the cup, and hold it to his lips. “Drink,” I say, “before it gets cold.”

He does so, again dipping his head. After a loud slurp, I return the toast to his mouth whilst putting the cup down. After he takes a bite, my hands move to his waistband, and I pull his underwear down. Eager to relieve the tight pressure in his nuts, which he thinks must be down to the waistband, he lets me slide the shorts past his bum and down his legs, to pool at his feet.

Then, I return my fingers to his fat, blue balls.

“Don't worry,” I say reassuringly, chin on his shoulder, observing as his meaty tomahawk missile once more rears up pointing skyward; the crisply defined rim of skin slowly drawing back to reveal a hint of the purple warhead and dark, moist piss-slit within. “It's perfectly natural. Most boys – like you – don't think they'll like this sort of thing. But the truth is that they yearn for this level of structure. Crave it. And, after a time, that craving can become so strong, that it becomes a sexual thing.”

He gulps. “I don't...yearn...for this sort of thing. I just haven't cum in ages, that's all it is – it's your sick imagination that thinks I like this.”

I give his balls a sharp tug as I kiss his muscular sloped shoulder, a few inches above his colourful Para tattoo.

He flinches, but he doesn't say anything.

“Really,” I say dismissively, my fingers now just barely touching his nuts; tickling them, really, only occasionally crooking my fingers into claws, cupping and jiggling the curved orbs within, my sharpened nails the only point of contact with his sensitive nads.

I whisper into his ear, as he sits on my knee with his eyes closed, chewing one last mouthful of toast, “well let's see how things develop, shall we? We have quite a journey ahead of us, and Dorothy hasn't even left Kansas yet.”

He had leant forward to eat, as if to get away from the humiliation. Now he was finished, I pulled him back toward me, so he was once more slouching against my own body. With his boxers now lying on the floor, his legs could once more spread apart and his wide feet, still in white ankle socks, were upright with just his long toes touching the cold linoleum floor, curled in embarrassment.

With my right hand once more on his chest, keeping him in place, my left moved up to his cock, taking the squishy, meaty tube in hand and firmly skinning him back to reveal the plump purple head.

I proceeded to jack him, as if he were an inflatable, oily oil derrick, his easily excitable prick steadily filling with blood and sexual energy as I pumped him.

My right moved from his chest, and slid down through the hairy forest adorning his chest to his embarrassingly aroused, heavily perspiring crotch.

He was surprised when I avoided his beefy organs and instead used my right hand to lift his right leg, at the knee, up to the table. I wedged his knee past the edge of the table and still further up, so his cheek was curving at a 90 degree angle; I prompted him to flatten his leg out, forcing him to put the short limb on the surface of the wooden table. This compelled his grounded left foot to stretch on tippy-toes as his entire right leg was laid out on the table, his long right foot resting at an erect 90 degree angle on the table.

This also opened up his whorish groin still further, enabling me to slide my right hand along the outer edge of his thickly muscled thigh, before sliding across the revealled curve of his arse-cheek where it met his thigh. Stopping when my digits were resting within the sweaty trench behind his balls, my long index finger then ducked into the humid trench of his arse crack.

He jumped, his erect left foot pushing him to stand ever so slightly from my knee – enough for my finger to slither up the valley of his arse. More animated now, he moved as much as he could, but with his leg wedged on the table, the other balancing his compact frame, and my hand keeping his dick where I wanted it, his room for manoeuvre was critically limited. I shushed him quietly, before saying “now don't ruin it, mate. Don't ruin your big chance to get your life back, eh? That'd be a fuckin' crying shame, wouldn't it? Now, just sit there like a good boy, there we go, such a good boy...” whilst my finger locomoted up his crack with drive and with purpose, stopping only when it ran over the wrinkled, puckering skin of his mucky portal.

After prodding, and making his flinch slightly with a gentle tickle, I slowed my jacking of his now rock hard cock to a crawl whilst my finger, slick with sweat, once more broke through his inner defences, and began worming its way up his insides.

The thigh that adjoined my own tensed and flexed. “Fucker,” he spat, “fuckin queer fucker.”

“There we go,” I softly intoned in response, “you're doing very well, not long now...”

With my finger now pillaging his sensitive rear-guard, I once more sped up my wanking – to take him off it all. As sexual fog began to cloud his vision - to twist his pliant mind to my will – treacherous sap began to bubble and froth from his wide piss slit.

Neither of us speaks; he doesn't object to my finger up his arse, because as his cock is making clear, he kinda likes it. And I don't speak, because I don't fucking need to.

The assertive thumb of my jacking hand carefully smoothes his excitement into the shiny, purple flesh of his glans, the wide dome happy for some liquid sustenance, and me, happy to provide it.

Of his own volition, he leans back against me. It crushes my arse-lodged finger; I wonder if I'll ever see it again; but I don't stop him as the back of his head comes to rest on my lean shoulder.

His eyes are closed, but it is clear he's beginning to understand, as I continue to administer the relief and structure his fit young body needs. “It's ok mate,” I whisper, “we're on our own; none of your army mates around. Just lie back and let me take care of you. That's what you want, isn't it? Someone taking charge.”

The tell-tale schloping sound of loose, moist foreskin soon comes to dominate the kitchen as my hand strokes him whilst my fingers, numb but still somehow responsive, root around inside him.

His big foot curls as I jack him, a barometer of how close he is to orgasm. 

“Keep going, Corp. Such a good boy. You're close, aren't you? Of course you are; I know, don't worry. You don't have to say. I wonder if you're gonna cum big today, eh? I bet you will. You've been carrying around that nice big load in yer nuts all week, right? That's what you'll blame it on, no doubt."

I laugh.

"And ya' know what? Because we're such fucking good mates now, I'll even smile, and nod, and agree, as if I'm saying 'yep, that's what it was; that's why you shot more gloop then you've ever shot before; it was nothing to do with me, it was all because of that dangerous buildup downstairs.' But we both know you'll cum big, Corp, because you love this. And that's fine. I'll never make you talk about it; never make you confront it; we'll just accept it, and deal with it. That's what the big silent type like you would want, right Corp?"

The only noise in the room is the sex.

"I think I'll draw up a rota for when you can cum whilst your not on deployment. That'd be handy, wouldn't it? Yeah. We'd all know where we stand then; you'll have something to look forward too. And come the big day, you can come over to my house – so we're nice and private, and sit on my knee whilst I make you cum. You'd like that."

He grunts, as if he were an animal signalling his agreement.

"And if you're an especially good boy – if you've mowed the lawn for me, or washed my car, say; well, we can sit in the living room, and I'll put some girlie porn on the TV whilst I dull the ache in yer nuts for a while, eh? Maybe I'd suck the spunk right out of 'em. That'd be a nice treat, eh? I like sucking on your nuts, Corp. Bet you don't get that back at Camp Bastion. But it can only be for a special treat; I don't want you getting used to it. Can you picture it, mate? Hehe. Of course you can picture it. You're picturing it right now; that's why your cock just got even harder. Yeah, you're gonna cum big today. A foot? Two feet? Is that what we reckon? Yeah, I'll say two good, long feet. Here we go, good boy. Such a good, good boy...”

He sits on my knee with his head turned toward me...not a sexual thing – not to kiss me, or to look longingly into my eyes...his head is down; his eyes, squeezed shut, in an attempt to bury his shame...his face is firmly planted into the comforting warm crux where my shoulder meets my neck, his eyes closed; his lips parted.

Strings of saliva drip onto my shirt, one after another.

I decide to push things forward; Corp is ripe for the plucking, but his mind won't be so completely occupied with the need to breed; his brain won't be rebooting forever.

I need to move on.

My right index finger prods and pops the sexual grenade deep within him. Explosive concussions ripple through him causing his bulky, compact body to quiver, as though in the midst of an excruciatingly gratifying orgasmic fit; his right foot extends as far as it can, lifting slightly off the table as salvo after salvo of jellied white lightening erupts from his hot semi-automatic, the first landing with a steaming splat on the breakfast table. After the first all-encompassing squirt, his foot drops back onto the table, and curls up into a white ball of pained release as each successive shot of spunk is fired into the air; pearled viscous flecks of him drizzling the table, before a final few spurts flow lazily from his flagging cock, dribbling down to his own nut sack and the floor.

We remain stationary for a moment as the well-exercised soldier catches his breath, drenched in his own uncontrollable shame.

“Two feet. I'm very proud of you, Corporal. Very proud indeed. Now up you get, good boy,” my hand leaves his dick so I can return both his feet to the floor, before pushing him up so he is standing, albeit shakily, on his big, athletic feet.

He plants his hands on the table to steady himself, and remains there as I slowly remove my finger from his delicate colon.

As I do this, I observe through his short little legs one last pearl of brave Brit batter gathering at the tip of his deflating prick, now pointing in a southerly direction. As it imperceptibly grows in size, it looks more and more tantalising.

As I watch, I lick my lips, and I gulp noisily.

By the time my finger has extricated itself from his depths, the drop of thick army protein has begun its own patrol, the unctuous blob now an inch beneath his prick, attached by an ever weakening string of syrupy liquid.

Quickly falling to my knees, I kiss the rear interior of his left thigh before shoving my head between his legs to stick my tongue out, so the tasty dollup can safely descend into the wet embrace of my tongue. Savouring the rich, musky, murky taste of the paratrooper's vintage dressing, I then follow the delicate string up to its source, taking the warm, rounded head, now mostly sheathed in a comfort blanket of peach-coloured skin, into my mouth. I proceed to lightly suckle on it from behind, using my teeth to gently pull both scented nozzle and meaty hose back over his nuts and through his legs, so my head is now directly placed between his spread, muscular squaddie-boy thighs, both of which are pressing down on either side of my head.

As I feed, the malodorous, offensively fiery stench of his deep-rooted taint wafts down to my nose from above. My hands are on his bum; keenly massaging the cheeks for him, and keeping him from moving too much.

He learns to stand there, socked toes curling like a hawk's talons, enduring the pain of my suctioning mouth on his sensitive prick tip as I slurp up the remnants of the straight lad's subcutaneous protein-rich gravy, juicy morsels of which still coats his inner tubing.

After what feels like a few moments, but which might have been a few minutes, I lean back and stand up again, my tongue briefly slobbering over his crack on the way up.

I push my groin into his backside as I lean into him, pinning him to the table.

“Is...is the game over now, Sir? Please...”

I lean over him, putting my hands on his own, still on the table. I plant a small kiss on his shoulder as I whisper back, “do you want the game to be over, Corp?”

“...w-what? Nn-I mean, y-yeah, please...”

I smile as I plant another kiss behind the shell of his cute little ear. “You sound a little unsure of yourself, Corp.”

“P, please...”

“It's fine, Corp. Don't worry about it. I know what it's like; I get it. It's fine. I'm discrete, Corp; no one'll ever have to know. Not your girlfriend, not mum, not dad...it can be just between us, 'k? Yeah. Like I say, we'll setup a rota. A system. That's what we need...that's what you need, Corp. Something...set. Something...rigid. It's what all boys need, Corp...without it, well, they just don't grow up right, do they? And I know we can come up with a system which you'll respect, Corp...something fair; judicious....I know how it is. It's about balance, Corp...bollocks full enough so you still have spark to get up in the morning, but not so full that you lose focus...”

“N-n, Sir, please...”

“Now, now, now, Corp. Don't start with that again. I don't mind being discrete, but we really must get over this 'no' business. You like this, remember? We both know you like it. Remember when you spunked a few minutes ago? I thought you were gonna pass out, Corp...and remember when I got on my knees so I could worship your hot little bod for a bit at the start? Felt pretty awkward, didn't it...but you'd like me to do it again, hehe. Yeah, you like it. Imagine if I did that again for ya? Made you cum like that, I mean...I can, you know...I can do it whenever I want. And I will, won't I, Corp? I will, because you'll let me.”

“Please...”

“You go back on deployment this week, so you won't be cumming again before you leave. But ya' know what you're gonna do, Corp? For a week and a half before you come back, you ain't gonna touch yourself. You're just gonna let it build, and build. So yer nuts get all tingly and ripe. And I ain't gonna tell you to do it; I ain't gonna checkup on you to make sure you do it. You're just gonna do it, because the guy who runs yer family jewels for ya wants you to. The flight back on those C-130's can get pretty rocky, right? That's good. All that turbulence, jigglin and shakin yer sack, keeping you good and hard for me. And you know what's gonna happen when you come back, Corp? You'll say hello to mum, and to dad, and to the little lady - bless her, and then you'll say hello to me. You'd like that, won't you?”

I ground my trousered dick against his naked muscular ass, as he looked down at my hand moving over his own hand. “Ya know, you looked very dashing in your army combats, Corp. I'll get you wearing those a lot more often from now on. I like 'em, cos they're so easy to get off you. No fiddly buttons or zips...yep, soon as you're back, I'll have 'em round yer ankles whilst I soothe that itch for ya...suck that tingle right out of yer hairy nuts.”

Our fingers begin to entwine. “Hehe. Ya' look scared, Corp. Don't be scared. It's our secret, remember? I'll make sure no one ever finds out. The perfect crime. You can do all your macho bullshit out in public, then we'll go upstairs – separately, of course – and whilst everyone's busy drinking and laughing downstairs, I'll give you a good scrubdown...get that mucky uniform off you, fill up the bath with hot, soapy water, and we can spend half an hour just scrubbing that desert right off you...that sand must get everywhere, huh...behind your nails...in yer chest hair...behind yer foreskin. Yeah, I'll get you nice and clean alright. You won't have to do a fuckin' thing, Corp; just sit there, and let my tongue do all the work. Yeah. No blackmail bullshit; no threats. Just...a system. A system you hate yourself for loving. A system that'll make your toes curl every time you cum. You want that, right?”

The silence is deafening.

Leaning forward into his neck, I take in one last, deep breath of him; of the stale stink of fear rising off him. “I'm gonna fuck you now, Corp.”

“NnnOO, please, fuck, please no, please....”

“But Corp,” I say sympathetically, “I want to. Don't you understand? I want to, and you wanna do what I wanna do, so that's what's gonna happen. Understand? See what I'm saying?”

“I-I-I don't want to!”

I chuckle lowly. “Then why don't you stop me, Corp? Why don't you use those big muscles to kick the shit out of me?”

“T-t-the videos, t-t-the g-game-”

“The Game?! Please. Your insulting me again. Don't insult me again, Corp. This is not about a game, fuckwit. This is, and always was about you. About you, and your fucking dick. Don't you get it? You're so fucking obvious, Corp. It's so obvious, what gets you off; what you think about when your jacking yourself in Helmand; just like its obvious it's the one thing you don't get. 

I look at him as I talk.

"'Game'...please. That was just a device, Corp – like your little cage over there. A device to compel you to confront it all; for you to figure out what it's really after; what it craves, and to understand that only another man can deliver that. Girls...mate, it's fine to be attracted to girls, ok? And that's why you're straight – because you like tits, not dicks. But don't you understand? They'll never give you what you want. Oh sure, they bitch and moan for equality and emancipation, but women just want big strong guys like you to cuddle them, and love them, and fuck them senseless. No, you can keep liking your girls, mate – but I'm gonna be the one giving you that drug you need; those heavy cums.”

I pull down my zip. “Hehe. Oh, your brain doesn't like it. I know that, Corp. I mean, what man's brain would? But your dick does. Your dick fuckin' loves it, Corp – can't get enough. And I think we know who wins in the battle between your brain and your bell-end, right?” I chuckle. “That's why you're getting hard again already. Don't bother denying it, Corp; I'll looking at your prick right now. Yeah. You're so fucking obvious mate. But you don't have to worry; because you've been figured out, and now, the real fun begins. And the real fun begins, with a fuck.”

He goes to say something, but I continue speaking and he shuts up immediately, no longer able to question my authority. “Shall we do it here, Corp?”

Silence; a sniffle.

“No, best not. Wouldn't want you having flashbacks when you're in here with Dad, having your last breakfast before heading off to base, eh? The hardon would be pretty difficult to explain...no, let's head upstairs, Corp.”

I move to go upstairs.

He follows.

We move into his bedroom, and I sit on the bed as he moves behind me. I admire the posters decorating his room – various leather-glad females draped over motorbikes.

“You like leather, huh? Um...girls, in leather, I mean?”

“No!” he says defensively, the evidence plastered all over his walls.

“It's cool,” I say, looking at them. “Explains a lot.”

He says nothing, instead looking around, and moving to draw the curtains one hand covering his half hard rod and rapidly recuperating nuts.

“Leave the curtains where they are,” I say.

“B-but people'll see...”

“I live over the road. Only I'd see. And I'm here, with a far better view, aren't I? Leave the curtains where they are.” I stand. “Get into bed.”

“into bed?”

“Something wrong with your fuckin' ears, Corp? Yes, into bed, right now.”

“Erm, ok, um, Sir.”

Chapter Six: The Inevitable Defeat

He lies in his own bed, beneath the covers – eager to cover up – with his head propped up on pillows. He watches me through big, grey eyes as I pop a DVD into the TV on the table beside his bed, and turn it on.

I move out of the way of the TV, to the other side of the bed, and begin removing my shirt as the TV comes alive with two girls going at it.

Like a puppy who's caught sight of a bone, his eyes divert to the television, and he begins rubbing his crotch through the thick white quilt.

“Roll over and watch your porn, Corp.”

He looks at me briefly before quietly rolling over so he's on his right side, facing away from me and toward the TV.

In no time at all, the trooper forgets I'm there, lost in the on-screen imagery as two big-breasted blondes 69 one another.

He flinches as I pull away the duvet, and get in the bed, snuggling against him, my bare dick nestling in the yielding, red-hot valley between his buns. My left arm, beneath the covers, quickly surmounts his flank and descends to his tummy, idly scratching and tickling the ridges adorning his fluttering tummy.

He tries to ignore me as I rest my chin on the crook of his shoulder. After briefly giving the rounded muscle a little kiss, we watch the porn together. He knows better than to object when me right hand, currently sandwiched between my own body and the bedspread, reaches up to rub and soothe his right shoulder, whilst my left heads in a southerly direction after abandoning his masculine, fluttering tummy.

Lefty brushes against the fingers of his left hand, slowly but surely tugging himself to renewed erection. He stops briefly, as if to let me take over for him, should I wish.

I don't.

I keep going, and take hold of his large, snuggly pouch, hefting and squeezing the big nuts whilst he rubs his dick with his own, big hand. He moves his right arm up, placing it beneath his head as he lies on the pillow. This lifts his heavy, condensed frame away from the bed slightly, and I take the opportunity to slide my right arm beneath him so my arm can protectively curl around him; planting my hand firmly on his rounded pec, and pull the big lug closer to me, so we are spooning like old lovers.

“Room enough for two, Corp,” I mutter, as my palm moves up from his fur-lined nuggets to his marinated cock. He pushes back into me, recoiling, as I push my hand down onto the sensitive glans, his drippings smearing the centre of my palm as he reacts violantly to the pain. “Stay where you are,” I instruct, not letting up.

“Sir...” he squeaks, his voice in high octave, dominated by deep, ragged breathing.

“It'll stop when you stop wriggling,” I add.

He stops moving, every muscle tensed whilst I carefully and purposefully torture his purple glans. My paratrooper whimpers and yelps and cries, stuck somewhere between dismay and ecstasy.

He manages to remain stationary for a few endless moments.

“Very good boy,” I whisper proudly. As a reward for his good behaviour, my hand relents, moving instead to take firm grip of his big purple head, fully drawing back the skin so I can pick at and scrape against the delicate, steamy glans. The watery scum he's burping up tells me I'm doing a good favour for him, even if he continues to hyperventilate and sigh, as his own hand is relegated to masturbating the base of his thick, pudgy organ.

Happy with his endurance, I soon administer a few rough, rewarding tugs to his tip, coupled with some long-overdue corkscrews. Happy with the new, loving tone of my hand, his muscles relax once more, and his breathing begins to return to a semblance of normality as he melts into me.

I stroke him as we watch the porn together. I'm hard, but not because of the TV.

His left leg moves, rotates and spreads, opening up his crotch and coming to rest upright, at a 90 degree angle beneath the quilt.

He doesn't say anything. He continues to lie on his side, watching the porn; the quilted pyramid the strut of his leg has made in the bed rocks from side-to-side, no doubt a product of the sexual electrons bouncing around inside him, struggling to get out.

This is all most fortuitous for my hands beneath the quilt; with the right leg lying prone along his bed sheet, the other rising up into the air, I am provided with some much needed room under the thick duvet.

He has been good enough to provide me with the freedom of manoeuvre necessary to quietly, gently and intimately wank him off.

My hand has a firm, strong hold on his dick, with my palm tickling, diddling and otherwise fiddling with his plump head. My sliding hand has compelled his own had to move on; he cups his nuts as my hand now moves freely and unrestricted along his entire length.

Meanwhile, my lips continue to plant demure little kisses on his muscular shoulder, whilst I continue to breath in deep lungfuls of desert lad stink.

His dick is again once again hard...once again, very hard. My fingers glide across the hardened ridges which run along the surface of his organ, luxuriating in the irascible, unrelenting marble like strength of my army Pitbull's big sweaty bone.

I guess he likes lesbians, I thought. I made a mental note to remember for future reference, as I began thrusting the length of my cock along the cleft between his butt-cheeks, the sensitised skin of my organ occasionally making every effort to rub against, prod and otherwise irritate the rubbery, rounded lil' pussy at his centre.

My hand began stroking him more lightly, more slowly. He grunted in annoyance, but doggies learn quick – he was soon thrusting himself into my fist, the straight stud abandoning all pretence of pride as he whored himself still further in his pursuit of a climax.

His crotch attacked my fist with typical straight lad gusto, his pelvic thrusts short but powerful, with army boy's arse clenching on each assault, as though he were pushing himself into a buttery vagina, smearing another batch of syrupy pre over my palm and his sheets as he did so.

My head was still on his shoulder, and I would watch his eyes, watching the TV, wondering what was going on in his big dumb head; how he was rationalising it all.

I checked him reactions by forcefully running my thumb over the wide dome of his prick. In response, he bit his lip as a gentle yelp forced its way past his rosy lips.

Yeah, he was awake alright...just wishing he wasn't awake, no doubt.

My left hand reluctantly left his prick, so I could take a hold of my own. But not before I reach over to his bedside table, yank open the drawer, and remove the suspicious (but to be expected) bottle of lotion.

He doesn't comment. He pretends not to see it; pretends not to understand; pretends to be focussed too much on his porn. It's a pleasant fiction...and if it means I can tap his straight army-boy arse; well, fuck, I'll get out my pen and bloody write it for him if he wants.

My right hand, still luxuriating in the hide of fur adorning his pecs, twists a nipple, to help him along as his own hand begins to masturbate himself again.

With my cock now slick with lotion, my slippery index finger applies the remaining residue on the muddy exterior of his manhole. Thinking he's still a little dry, I reach over and squeeze my hand up along the shaft of his cock; his wanking hand quickly removes itself from his organ as I compel a juicy deposit to appear in the deep well of his piss slit.

Before it dribbles with the rest onto his bed covering, I capture it on my index finger.

His hole now prepped with his own, locally produced lube, I line up my terrifically hard cock, and push.

He yelps. He tries to stop himself, but he yelps, in pain. I feel bad; I'm hurting my poor little Pitbull. He doesn't know what's going on, I tell myself; why are you doing this to him? He just wants to watch his porn, the poor little thing. My hand on his pec feels him flex in anguish, and his short, bulky frame pushes forward in a hapless attempt to get away from me.

But I also feel his heart rate quicken, and I also hear the methodical, juicy sounds produced by his loose foreskin go up a gear as he strokes himself faster and faster.

His eyes remain fixed on the brunette eating out the blonde from an earlier scene.

Is the dick in his ass the dream, or are the Lesbians the dream? Does it matter?

Deciding the master always knows what's best for his doggie, I bite the bullet – or in his case, the left shoulder, which I sink my teeth into – and after half my dick has wormed its way up his intestine, I pull back before quickly ramming my weapon firmly up past the paratrooper's defensive ring, and into his cosy insides.

“Am-AGHARGH,” he screams, clutching his dick as if it were a handbag and closing his damp eyes.

I lean into him as my teeth release his shoulder from my grip, so my forehead can rest on the back of his hairless, military-buzzed neck whilst I allow myself to become enveloped in the warmth of his guts.

My peace is shattered by his flailing arm, reaching back in disorganised, panic-induced jolts as he tries to hit me, or move me, or somehow obstruct me.

“GedditaARGH HAHA, please gedditouttttttt,” he wails.

Once again, he doesn't want to play any more. Unfortunately for him, this game can only end one way – and it isn't with me now pulling out, getting dressed and us all going on our merry way.

His acute mental discord is so complete, that his fist is seemingly unable to work out how to get towards me. I ignore it and calmly pull back along his ringed tubing so most of my cock is out of him, and then I push forward once more. But more restrained this time; more gentle; more loving; as if I were his Prince and he, my maiden.

“HAGHmm, p-please...”

“Shush shush,” I say quietly, as I kick my feet to get the covers off us, allowing me to look at his finely built naked body once more.

His hairy, heavy-set legs are still cracked open at a 90 degree angle, as if God had cantilevered them open whilst he was on his side, with him now unable to move them.

Once I'm balls deep inside the traumatised straight lad, I hold it for a few seconds, my cock seemingly pulsing with the beat of his own heart whilst I spoon him and continue planting soppy kisses on his upper arm and shoulder.

I withdraw until only the curved bell end remains within him, and then I push forward again, hard, into his blisteringly hot rectum, seeking out that little button within him which I know will make everything alright.

I do this a few times; sliding in and out of him; in fact, I do it more than a few times; I don't think I'm being too hard, but the bed is rocking backwards and forwards, my thighs ache, and he's now just emitting one long moan of tormented contentment.

I manage to prod it. Definitely once; maybe twice. In response he partly growls like a big, dumb wolf, and partly gurgles like a big, dumb baby, as if happy, but fretfully confused.

Seeking to maintain the happiness, my left hand slides from its position on his left butt-cheek, and takes hold of his flagging cock. Long since abandoned by his own fist which, together with the porn, has taken on secondary importance since my hot poker invaded his straight arsehole, I begin to jack him.

The enigmatic gurgling noises continue unabated as I carefully slide out, and back into my captured prize.

His dick again becomes stiff, drooling starchy pre-spunk over my sticky fist as I softly roil the exposed plum on the end.

When his pelvis starts to once more gently thrust into my fist in one direction, and then into my ass in the other, I know the time is right to mix things up a little bit.

I keep my right hand on his pec, and my left on his dick. When my own dick is buried to the hilt in him, I effectively weld his body to my own, and I roll over onto my back.

The first thrust to move onto my back is the most difficult, as I have to pull many pounds of heavy paratrooper with me – but gravity and momentum soon take over, and we go rolling over, as one.

Having slipped into a carnal coma whilst I was fucking him, he cries out in surprise as he rolls. Once he is on top of me, he looks round, as if to survey his new surroundings, our legs intertwined in a mass of limbs.

As we turned, I have kept jacking him. When we come to a stop, I slow my relief to a crawl.

The heavy animal on top of me realises what he must do. In his eternal quest for friction, he straightens his big thick arms and plants his hands on the bedsheet beneath us, and seeks to cool the inferno within his balls the only way he can – by thrusting up into my hand with the smooth, long thrusts.

Accompanying these thrusts is an inevitable, unavoidable, delightful clenching of the marble-like buttocks my cock is ensconced within.

My right hand moves from his chest to his shoulder blade, so I can encourage him to push up, further and deeper into my fist, because it makes his collapse onto my cock all the sweeter; makes my senseless plundering of his delicate pink insides, all the easier. “Good boy,” I say, “work for it now, good lad,” as he uses all his big-boy army strength to push up into my fist, and sate his animalistic need to cum.

His thrusts become quicker, and his breath quickens. He is sweating now; the reek of it fills the room; fills his bed.

His rounded butt-cheeks crack loudly each time his colon bores down onto me.

I feel my nuts drawing up as my fist, wet with greasy young para juice, tightens and rewards his leal service with the harsh friction he craves.

He takes in deep, great lungfuls of air as my weapon starts to fire into him. His thrusting becomes even more urgent; his breathing is flat-out as invisible bullets ricochet around his prostate, coating his straight pelvic colon with my own distinctive mark.

Whilst I am cumming, his thrusting becomes wild as he howls like an anguished banshee, and spits thick juicy gobbets of lad spunk up high into the air, before gravity adds to his humiliation by compelling it to return to Earth, via his own face.

Not really wanting to, but being so exhausted – so utterly consumed, that he is unable to prevent it, his arms give out and he collapses onto my slowly softening cock, his sphincter still stretched around the base like a comforting, warming elastic band.

“Good lad,” I say breathlessly, “you did good, Corp. Great, absolutely great.”

He was silent for a minute, his head beside my own, looking up through those cold, grey eyes at the white ceiling above.

His voice was cracked; shaky. “I don't-”

“Yes you do, Corp. That's why we're gonna do it again, ok? Not because you like it, but because you need it.”

“The...the pictures...”

“You can have them. Or I'll just delete them; whatever. I don't really need them anymore, do I?”

“I really don't-”

I put a sweaty, stinky finger on his spunk-stained lips. “Corp. Shut the fuck up. This is a good deal for you, ok? You can still do all your straight boy stuff – you don't have to dump your girlfriend or open a hair salon or anything – but you get the treatment which makes you cum like a fuckin' fountain – like, the best cums you've ever had, and with a person who won't tell a soul and doesn't want to do any of that lovey-dovey 'getting to know you' shit. Alright? So yeah, I'm sorry I'm the wrong gender, pal, but that's life. Stop acting like a spoilt brat, Corp.”

“Listen-”

“I can guarantee,” I said, speaking loudly, “that you are not the first straight person to engage in homosexual sex. Ok? You're not even the first straight fucking paratrooper to engage in homosexual sex. What, you think all your mates are Mr. Vanilla whilst your the one with the kinks? Jesus Christ, get over yourself, Corp.”

Like all young straight boys – especially army lads, he welcomed a bit a derisory straight-talking, and my spiel had shut him up nicely. And now my cock was soft, I wanted nothing more than to roll him off me.

But first, I had to clean him up. I ran my finger along the cooling pearled ooze which decorated his face as if I were swiping some soft icing from a cake, and eagerly, noisily sucked it clean in my mouth, relishing that special straight-boy tang.

I scooped up some more, and offered it to him, but he turned his face away muttering, “are you fucking insane.”

But as he was muttering that, I jabbed my finger into his mouth.

Pitbull's can be such angry creatures; oh, you can train them to roll over; you can scratch them behind the ear whilst they look up adoringly at you; but the anger is always there, bubbling away beneath the surface. Well, my Pitbull didn't welcome the presence of my pointy finger, dripping with spunk in his mouth; not one bit. He nearly bit my finger off, infact. But he had for the first time tasted his own essence, and he rolled off my body – so for me, it was win-win.

I put on my clothes and left whilst he was in shower, as I knew that was how a big macho straight lad like him would want it; no 'discussions', no 'chats', no 'going over it'.

He left two days later. I watched from my window as his stuff was loaded into the back of Len's car. He then departed, with a fanfare more subdued than that which followed his arrival.

He certainly has a long time to think things over...do we have 'a thing' going? Obviously, given the circumstances, I don't know.

Maybe I'll email him?

Others in this Series:

• Straight Lads 1: Jamie - The School Lad
• Straight Lads 2: Dale - The Chav Lad
• Straight Lads 3: Darren - The Removals Lad