Drastic Measures

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Art by Michael Kirwan

 Story by Bill Carpenter

originally published in Honcho Magazine - April, 1991 issue

    

 

Horny naked men marooned on a deserted island...

_____

 

April 6, 1944. Somewhere m the South Pacific, 25 days after shipwreck. Time: noon, and hotter than hell.

Looks like we're gonna be stuck here for a while now. Forty-seven men on a little piece of reef I bet I could spit across. The storm a couple days ago blew everything down, including the sailors' radio antenna. Me and my buddies got an idea how to set up a new one, but the Navy thinks us Marines ain't smart enough for that. All them sailors managed to do so far is try and repair the mike and loudspeakers by headquarters, so we can all do jumping jacks together in the morning. Us Leathernecks got stuck rebuilding the shelters out of leaves and driftwood. At least the wind blew down a few palm trees, saved us some work. And we don't have to sleep out on the sand anymore, have a place to go when the sun's blazing down, like now for example.

A couple real bad fights brok eout in the past few days, over nothing much. Some sailor pulled a knife on Sgt. Frazier, but the swabbie's buddies cooled him off. Otherwise the swabbie woulda been ripped in two, Sarge was that mad. Situation is getting to everybody. But what do you expect? Bunch of mostly young guys, no privacy, no place to go, no time off--can't even have a decent wet dream, for crying out loud.

Speaking of which, I was having a real good one last night, when I got woke up for my turn on guard duty. That's really a laugh, out in the middle of nowhere, patrolling the beach. We don't even have any weapons. They all went down with the ship, except the Navy Captain's sidearm. So what are we supposed to do, beat the invaders over the heads with our hard-ons?

So anyway, in that dream, I'm stark naked and sweaty in a hot dark little room, a bunch of bodies all pressing close together, and I'm trying to get out, rubbing past these guys--you can tell it's guys because of the smell and I keep touching their hard-ons and everything--and they're grabbing at my chest and my butt and stuff, and I got this huge boner, and it just swells up as big as my arm, standing way up, till I could have licked the head of it myself. Juice is oozing out, and it smells real meaty.

I try to hide it, but those hands just go wild on it, squeezing it good and hard, and then a guy starts to tongue it all over, sucking out the end of it, lapping up the juice, while somebody else chews on my ear and whispers "Give it to me, okay, Jimmy? Gimme all you got. Let me have it, please? It's so hot and thick. I need it, and you've got so much." It sounds like Sgt. Frazier's voice, and that just gets me hotter. Then a hand starts squeezing my balls, they were like grapefruits, and I get that burny itchy feeling, my legs were shaking, and I decided to just give up, let go, let the sergeant have it, when ...

* * *

A shadow fell across the page. "Corporal, put that scribblin' away, and get your ass out in formation. You've gotta report to headquarters, on the double. New duty roster or some such shit, probably."

"Yessir, Sgt. Frazier, sir," Jimmy said, jumping to attention, fumbling with his notebook and pencil while trying at the same time to cover the erection tenting his loose, sweat-stained fatigues. "Right away, sir." His sunburned face turned a brighter red.

The sergeant wiped his forehead with the back of his arm and settled his drill cap back in place. "Calm down, son. You don't have to call me sir. What you writin' there anyway, got you so upset? Dirty stories?"

"Yessir," Jimmy blurted out. "I ... I mean, no sir." There was no way he could disguise the rod he was throwing. He felt naked, like in that dark hot dream. And the sergeant looked so imposing, with his tight faded olive-drab T-shirt damp against his hard torso. Tailored khaki trousers, wet at the waistband. Fists on narrow hips, eyes shaded by the bill of his hat. And it had been the sergeant's voice, whispering in his ear, begging for something hot. Maybe some cum. Jimmy's cock throbbed in spite of his efforts at self-control. "It was just this dream, sir ..." he managed to say. What if the Sarge wanted to read it?

"Yeah, I'll bet," the sergeant muttered, looking off to the horizon. He squinted his eyes against the sun-glare coming off the water and sand. Idly cupped and shifted his own crotch bulge. "We're all havin' those kinda dreams." The sergeant continued to rub himself, then shook his head, as though throwing off an insistent idea. "What're you starin' at?" he barked at Jimmy. "Get a move on!"

"Yessir, Sergeant Frazier, sir. I'm going, sir." Jimmy yelped, stuffing his precious notebook into his back pocket and heading out across the scorching sand. "Gee," he muttered to himself, pulling on his soiled fatigue shirt as he sprinted for the group of Marines by the palm trees, "Sarge is lookin' kinda tense himself. Feelin' himself up right in front of me. But at least he treated me like a human being, almost, for a minute. Must be the heat."

The sergeant watched Jimmy sprint into the sun. Husky young kid lookin' so helpless, tryin' to hide his boner, mouth hangin' open and gawkin' at his sarge's big crotch ... There are times when a man might do anything, just to get some relief, the sergeant sighed to himself.

"Now, men, I know the idea is drastic, but we've got an explosive situation on our hands." Captain Stark stood on the makeshift platform, looking cool in spite of the cruel heat. He glanced compassionately at the stocky dark Marine lieutenant standing at parade rest beside him, then looked out over the assembled group of men. "We're all faced with a tough decision."

The Captain ran a hand through his cropped salt and pepper beard. "I admit that my plan is unusual," he went on, raising his deep voice so the men could hear. "But it's a plan that is firmly within the context of Naval tradition. Spending months or even years at sea, with only other men for companionship, most sailors are open to the idea of another man's serving an ... an intimate need." the Captain looked off to the horizon for a split-second, trying to suppress a rush of memories--willing crewmen or fellow officers; stealthy couplings on wardroom tables, or bent over a railing on the bridge, or hunched in a dark hallway throbbing to the pulse of the ship's engines. "So I'm giving you a few minutes to decide, and then we'll put it to the vote." A tense silence settled over the ranks below him.

"It's too wild," the Lieutenant had said just an hour ago, back in the Captain's cramped hut. "I get enough grief already from the men, no matter what orders I give, just because I'm black." There was real pain in the young man's deep brown eyes as he admitted this. "But if I stand up there on that dinky platform of yours and tell them they're all gonna have to get down on their knees and suck Navy cock--that I'm ordering them to give head to a bunch of squids--er, sailors, excuse me, sir--it'll be mutiny."

"I appreciate how you feel, Lieutenant Andrews," the Captain said. "But believe me, son, I know men," the older officer went on as he paced the room. "There'll be big trouble within the week, unless we get them some relief. And if we put it to them just right, they'll go for it. I personally guarantee it."

The Captain leaned back against his desk, bracing himself with his tanned arms. "You see, Lieutenant, men respond to challenge--they always have. And military men respect discipline. By combining challenge and discipline, contest and order, with a juicy reward thrown in, we can sell them on this idea." The Captain chuckled ruefully. "I've heard of stranger things in my twenty-eight years with the service, let me tell you. I suggest we throw out the rule book, and trust our guts. And our men. Besides," he added with a little smirk, "it might just end up the other way around, with me ordering my men to suck off all your Marines, while I squat down to blow you myself. There's that distinct chance. Think about it."

"But why not something less ... extreme, Captain?" the Lieutenant asked. His damp brow furrowed with concern. "A ... a circle jerk." All this sex-talk was jarring to the younger officer. He tried to think cool thoughts, to ward off a physical reaction to this erotic suggestion, but a crystal-clear image of the lanky, tanned Captain hunkering on his haunches and slipping his moist mouth up over the Lieutenant's fat cock insisted on presenting itself. And even the tight jock the young man wore wasn't going to repress his stirring prick much longer.

"Ever have a hand job, Lieutenant?" the Captain asked bluntly.

The Lieutenant's eyes widened. He nodded quickly. "Of course. Most of us have."

The Captain lowered his voice a notch. "Ever have a really good, ball-busting blow job?"

The Lieutenant's dark complexion reddened, his face shining like a polished teakwood mask. That dark night in basic training ... So much for control. His dick jerked toward stiffness, nosing the jockstrap's pouch aside. Struggling to keep his composure, he nodded again. The Captain instantly pressed for the advantage.

"And if you had a choice, which would you prefer--a hand job, or somebody sucking your dick? Which would be the more satisfying? In the long run?" The Captain's pale blue eyes were disconcertingly calm as he waited for his answer.

"Having somebody suck it," Lieutenant Andrews managed. He had both hands in his trouser pockets, trying unsuccessfully to hold his uniform away from the twisting bulge at his groin.

"Of course," the Captain nodded, looking right at the Lieutenant's crotch. "You probably wish somebody'd take care of you right now, if you're like the rest of us." The younger officer laughed and gave up the sham of modesty, letting his hard-on show for what it was. The elastic restraint of the jockstrap wasn't enough to keep his dick from stretching and seeking relief.

"So here's how we'll handle it ..." the Captain began.

The tension on the parade field was electric. "All in favor, raise your right hand," the Captain said. Sailors on one side, Marines on the other, eyes on their respective commanders, slowly brought their tanned right arms up. Only a few held back. The thin, bespectacled young ensign on the platform counted votes.

"As you were. Now, all opposed, raise your right hand," the Captain went on. The ensign looked from the men to the Captain and back, then handed over the tally. Three nays. No contest. Just what the Captain'd bargained for.

He tapped the mike, but it was still mute, so he strode straight to the front edge of the platform and cleared his throat. Frowning sunburned faces followed him. Lt Andrews looked at his boots.

"Thank you, men, for making what I believe was the best choice under the circumstances. Now," he said formally, fighting the urge to rush, "Lieutenant Stark, USMC and I hereby jointly issue the following orders: At 1600 hours today, all ranks will assemble here outside the command hut. Uniform of the day will be jockstraps or exercise shorts, T-shirt or athletic shirts optional."

"Man, my fuckin' jock's out there in the ocean, went down with the ship," a burly sailor muttered in a back row. "Do I gotta go swim out an' dive for it?"

His crew-mates nudged him to keep quiet. "Shut up, man. Wear what you got on. This ain't gonna be no fashion show," one of them said. The Captain paused for the men to quiet down. "At 1615 hours," he went on, "a wrestling match will commence, between Midshipman Diego Ruiz and Lance Corporal Jerry Du ... Du ..."

"Dubroskowscki," Jerry called out reflexively, but still uneasy at being in the spotlight.

"Thanks, son," the Captain nodded. "The first man to pin his opponent to the tarp for three seconds will be declared the winner."

The Captain paused. The men's eyes were all on him. This was the part he'd been waiting for. He spoke slowly and clearly.

"As of the decision of the referee, the winning wrestler, and all men of his branch of the Armed Forces, will be orally serviced to climax by the loser and his military fellows. All ranks will comply with this order, from officers to enlistees, without exception. Specific orders for this arrangement will be issued on-site." The Captain paused momentarily. "Any disobedience to these orders will be swiftly and severely punished. Company, dismissed." He and Lt. Andrews watched the two groups march off across the dazzling sand.

In the mess hut, the men sat hunched over their scant meals, shifting uneasily on their palm-trunk stumps and shaking their heads. Almost a month on this little scrap of sand, eating whatever fish they could catch, drinking coconut juice, or water they managed to collect in palm-frond pails, exercising rigorously to expend at least some of their pent-up energies, and now this. Sailors and Marines eyed each other with barely suppressed hostility.

"Ain't this somethin?" someone said. "Here I join up to fight a war, and end up in the middle of nowhere, stuck on an atoll with a bunch of sailors, and now I'm supposed to get my dick out and let some lousy squid suck on it for God and country."

"Who you callin' a squid, you lousy jarhead? And who says we'll do the suckin'?" one of the sailor growled, lurching to his feet. His buddies pulled him back down again.

"Cheer up, Mac," another Marine said as some of the men began to scour their plates with sand. "Things could be worse. I seen Jerry here wrestle back at Camp Pendleton, and he's good. Real good. So I'd lay money on it, that about 4:30 this p.m. we'll all be dumping a month's worth of hot cum down a lot of slick sailor throats."

"Hey, ain't Ruiz on beach patrol?" one of the sailors yelled. "Let's go find him. I got an uncle used to be a wrestler. Pro. There's a couple special holds the Navy champ might need this afternoon. I'm figurin' to feel me a little leatherneck lip on my love-muscle 'long about sundown, man, eatin' me 'til I squirt." The sailors laughed as they jogged off.

Ignoring the sailors' banter, the Marines gathered around Jerry, patting him on the back and giving him encouragement, making him take off his T-shirt and flex for them while they squeezed his pecs, felt his biceps and lats. Jerry smiled nervously, feeling a little dizzy, as though all this had happened before.

"Just relax, Jerry, and listen to me," Sgt. Frazier said. "We'll get you warmed up and ready. I'll coach you, okay?" Jerry nodded as the sergeant squeezed and massaged his neck. "He's gonna do fine," Sgt. Frazier announced to the rest of the men.

"Thanks," Jerry said.

"But if you fuck up," the sergeant added in an undertone, "I'll be settling with you personally. You can count on it. Let's go."

1625 hours. It was over. Jerry hung his head as he and his fellow Marines stood in line, his neck hot from sunburn and shame.

It had happened so fast. Before he knew it, there he'd been, sweaty chest heaving, bulky shoulders stinging, thick arms hanging limp, sitting back on his heels on the tarp and looking down at a long dark stain on the canvas, the damp pouch of his jockstrap, the trail of cum across his own belly. It had happened so fucking fast.

The men had been crowded around, cheering. Ruiz, his opponent, circling slowly, had seemed off-guard with that lazy smile and those big sleepy brown eyes, like a puppy who wants to lick you all over. Sgt. Frazier, stripped to the waist, in the ring with them, whispered to Jerry, "You can take him, Jerry. Just gimme all you got Jerry. Gimme all you got."

Ruiz left himself open, then folded around Jerry's sturdy torso in a slow-motion embrace, smooth coffee-brown skin rubbing against Jerry's pale freckles and sore sunburn. Lithe, taut muscles twisting against shorter, thicker ones. Belly to back, armpit to crotch, smooth wide hands seeking a hold. The Sarge's face in there too, "Give it to him, Jerry. Let him have it. All you got, kid. You got a lot, Jerry. Give it to him."

That's what got to me, Jerry thought. His cock had switched on, like he'd been hooked up to some battery. Ruiz was twisting all over him like a tan panther, catching Jerry's head in some strange reverse scissor lock, then pressing his aromatic crotch against the side of Jerry's face while grabbing the young Marine's solid buttocks. Sweaty, half-naked men shouting in the late afternoon sun. Ruiz grunting and throwing a boner now too, rubbing it against Jerry's cheek. Jerry's cock-head nosing out of his jock and twisting against the rough canvas. Ruiz pulling Jerry's thighs apart, a breath of salt air .licking at Jerry's asshole, exposed in front of all these horny men. Jerry struggling, his jaws clenched, his eyes staring.

And meeting Sgt. Frazier's narrow grey gaze. That sent him over the edge. That, and Ruiz nudging Jerry's butthole with a fat thumb. And the friction of the canvas against Jerry's cock-head.

That's what made Jerry wince and groan, then shudder and cry out. The referee slapped the canvas in time with the count while Jerry spewed his heavy load all over the tarp. Hips grinding. His face still held close against Ruiz's groin. His panting breath muffled in the sailor's crotch.

Yeah, Jerry'd known it was all over right then, even before the referee made the call and the sailors began shouting and hooting. Sarge had watched the whole thing from right down there on the mat--had caught some of Jerry's cum on his chest--and gave Jerry a cool, questioning look before walking away to get into formation.

So now comes the payoff. "Shoulda made it the best two outta three," the Marine beside him mumbled, but Jerry didn't think so. The state he was in, he didn't think he could take anybody down right now. He raised his eyes to look at the sailor opposite him--Ruiz, of course, his coiled cock twisted in an old pair of gym shorts. Jerry gulped. His neck got warmer. Well, maybe he could take somebody down after all down his throat.

Lieutenant Andrews was nervous, but excited too. Since he'd seen the corporal lose a load all over the tarp, his heavy cock had been almost fully erect, but there seemed no need to cover himself at his point. He squeezed the weeping head of his dick with his fingers as he and Captain Stark and the ensign stood on the platform, watching the ranks of enlisted men form up below. A Navy electrician fumbled with the microphone cord while the sailors marched in, alternating with the files of Marines already in place.

"I still don't think this will work," the lieutenant whispered to himself as the men assumed parade-rest. Most of them wore only their jocks or shorts, as ordered. A few had on olive drab T-shirts, dark at the armpits, taut across pumped-up chests. They didn't look rebellious, he admitted--more like men who had been given a choice, and had made it. Men who had a job to do. He knew how they felt.

The electrician gave the mike a couple of taps, which resounded through the speakers. He nodded to the Marine commander, briskly saluted his own Captain, and then jogged to take his place in line, holding his cock-laden jock against his belly as he ran.

Well, it's too late now, the lieutenant thought. At a nod from the Captain, he stepped up to the microphone, made a speech about sportsmanship and a fair fight, pledged the confidentiality of the maneuver and then gave the orders, following them himself as he barked them out. Left face. Forward two paces. Kneel on the count of two. Prepare for contact. "And men," he added, as he caught himself groping his dick, "if you feel that you want to handle yourselves during this, that will be fine." It seemed the least he could do for them, besides sharing this public ordeal.

Then it was the Captain's turn. His men watched him as he faced the microphone. He looked bulkier than many would have expected, stripped to the waist, a gleaming Sam Browne belt stretched across his chest, the island's only firearm slung in a holster at his side. His athletic supporter was obviously full, and he gave himself a congratulatory squeeze as he addressed his troops.

"All right, men. This is the moment you've been waiting for." There was a ripple of laughter through the ranks. The Captain rode over it, his rumbling voice stern. "This isn't a joke, men. These are extreme measures in an unusual case.

"Treat your Marine with respect," the Captain went on. "After all, it could have gone the other way. And depending on how long we're here, we may be running through this scenario again, with the Navy on its knees. So be considerate."

Looking out, he noticed four extra sailors at the end of one row, without men kneeling opposite them. "I see that some of you have been left out. Those sailors without partners, count off," he ordered. The men's voices were thin in the open air. "Even numbered men, take two paces forward." The men quickly followed orders. "You men are now honorary Marines. Take your places opposite the men you'll service." A ripple of laughter and joking accompanied this twist of events. "That's enough humor men. This arrangement may save our lives." As the men quieted down, the Captain surveyed the arrangement.

What a scene. Orderly, yet seething with lust, his men were barely able to suppress the urge to thrust forward and relieve the built-up pressure. At their feet knelt rows of sturdy Marines, stolid and obedient, many nursing hard-ons of their own.

Setting the mike beside him as he took his stance before the kneeling lieutenant, the Captain continued with the orders. "On a three count, men," he said, "thumbs at your waistbands, shove those jocks or shorts down past your balls, then hands back at your sides. Ready? Hup. Two. Three." The Captain's dick waved there for the men to see, a nice heavy, straight one with a big moist head. And the Captain had the vantage point to survey the lines of bared cock, standing at all angles, every variety of shape and dimension, all at the ready. He swore he could smell them, the meaty aroma wafted up to him by the late afternoon breeze. "Lieutenant, I believe it's your order now," he said.

Lieutenant Andrews looked up as the Captain twisted the collar on the mike stand. The gleaming mike-head slid down to rest level with the Marine's face. This guy has it all worked out, Andrews thought as he gave the next set of commands.

"Marines, prepare to drop jaw and extend tongue, on the two count. One, Two."

The Captain grinned. He loved being in control. He just hoped he wouldn't shoot right then, looking down at Lt. Andrews, his mouth open, his soft pink tongue lolling out.

"All right men," the Captain took over, "hands on partner's head." The Captain grasped the Lieutenant's close-cropped hair. "Insertion on a three count. To the nuts if your Marine can take it."

Contact! Twenty-three dicks slid into twenty-three mouths. The ensign on the platform watched, jiggling his thighs. "Oh God," the Captain grunted in spite of himself. The gurgling sound of Lt. Andrews' mouth slurping all over the Captain's dick was picked up loud and clear on the speakers.

The Captain's voice was tight. "Try to hold back, men. Make it last. Thrust. Withdraw. Take it easy there, Lieutenant. I got plenty for you. Thrust. Shit, this guy really wants it. Thrust ..."

The sounds from the platform rang over the men below--juicy, slithering sounds, the Captain's satisfaction, the gulping moans of the Lieutenant--an amplified backdrop to their own cries of pleasure.

Sgt. Frazier settled into the sand, grateful there was no gravel to cut his knees. His cock hung against his left thigh, thudding with his racing pulse. A heavier pinker cock, bright blond hairs a halo around its base, thrust slowly into the sergeant's tanned face.

"At least the kid's hung like a real man," the sergeant thought, tonguing the fat retreating cock-head, taking a gulp of air before it rode on back in. "And it don't taste near as bad as I'd've thought." In fact, there was a pleasant bland flavor drooling from the piss-slit, a flavor the sergeant could like. The blond sailor was panting now. Frazier looked up, saw the kid staring down at him in dazed disbelief that such a thing would ever take place, that this war-toughened Marine would ever suck cock like this. And do it so good.

"Well, shit," the Sgt. thought, twisting his head and leaning forward to anticipate the sailor's forward thrust, "any job worth doing ..." With that, the big Marine began aggressively sucking for all he was worth, while the young sailor stood stock-still, legs spread wide, hands flat against his lower belly on either side of his tense, reddened dick, just letting himself get sucked off.

Two rows away, Jerry was humming around the column of flesh Ruiz fed him. The sailor caressed Jerry's head, and every time his long, slender dick hit bottom, Ruiz flexed his hips extra hard, making his cockhead dance in Jerry's throat. The Marine took it all, pinching one of his tits and twisting the shaft of his cock at the same time.

"Oh, man ... I'm gonna ..." someone grunted. Jerry turned his head, as well as he could while being fucked in the face. Some of the guys were about to blow. He was surprised they'd held off this long. Up on the platform, the ensign and Captain Stark were taking turns running their stiff cocks through Lt. Andrews' puffy lips. The head of the Marine commander's cock showed an enraged red as he rubbed it against his tight, outspread thighs. Ruiz was picking up speed.

Struggling against the haze of lust washing over him, the Captain looked out over the ranks of men. Half on their knees, the other half pumping their hips. Row after row of hefty swollen cock-shafts sliding into gaping, mouths dripping with saliva.

"When you're ready, men," the Captain said huskily, leaning over closer to the mike, and in the process shoving his crotch right in against Lt. Andrews' face in patient, measured strokes. The ensign jerked his spit-slick cock dreamily with one hand and cupped the Captain's balls with the other as they rubbed against the Marine's chin. "Fire at will." Captain Stark gritted his teeth.

"Oh, shit, sir, I'm ..." the ensign cried, and there was the sound of something hitting the microphone. "Aaaaw, fuck," Captain Stark grunted as the ensign's load splashed over his arm and Lt. Andrews' cheek. The Captain trembled, his knees jerked, and Lt. Andrews choked some as he swallowed the Captain's load, spilling his own wad far out over the rough wooden deck.

Men were grunting, their jaws slack, eyes unfocussed. Hips pumped. Ball sacks tightened. Rough, sharp cries exploded as heads were flung back, as thighs tightened, butts flexed, cocks spewed. Wad after wad of heavy cum poured out into ravaged throats.

Sgt. Frazier's eyes were wide, his lips and chin shiny with saliva and cum, as he spilled his own load. Jerry's fisted cock shot as he swallowed, leaving a heavy white trail on the warm sand. Muffled gulping sounds rose from other men on their knees. Other dicks, twisted and pulled, spewed out their offerings between the wide-set legs of sailors.

* * *

May 5, 1944. Somewhere in the South Pacific. Still hotter 'n' hell. Sand and coconuts everywhere. Some guys swore they saw a plane yesterday, but if they did, it sure didn't see us. So for now at least, more of same.

But things are looking up in some ways, I guess. At least us Marines have more than evened the score in the Captain's wrestling competitions. We've won twice now, and it was great to slip my dick into Ruiz's hot wet mouth for a change. Guy gives good head, I have to admit. He looked real hot when I fed him my cum; it drooled out of his nose and into his moustache.

And it was great watching Lt. Andrews really get dirty all over that Navy Captain, while the skinny ensign took off his glasses and shoved his face up the Lieutenant's big butt. Jerked himself off at the same time. Hot fuckin' show. Hell, the way things are going, I wouldn't be surprised if the officers decided to have us fuck each other's butts, if we're out here much longer. And I have to admit I'd be kind of interested, if maybe Sgt. Frazier could pretend to be a sailor just once. Make me get down on all fours in the sand ...

Which reminds me of another crazy dream I had this morning, where the Sarge takes me into Captain Stark's office, says it's time for me to pay up, for losing that first wrestling match, remember? And the Lieutenant's there too, and they make me strip and crawl up on the desk, and then they watch Sgt. Frazier whip out that big piece of his and stuff it all right up my little hole, 'til I feel his big balls rubbing against mine. I'm screaming and hollering, the officers are jerkin' off, waitin' their turn, and more men pile into the room.

* * *

"Du ... Duber ... Dewbroo ...?" a voice yelled from outside.

"Here," Jerry answered, scribbling rapidly to finish his thought.

"Lieutenant Andrews wants to see you in Captain Stark's office right away. Sgt. Frazier is there already. On the double."

"Sure thing," the young Marine shouted. He tucked his notebook into his back pocket, and broke into a grin as he sprinted across the sand.


THE     END

Stories Main Listing

 

 

 

Any images, writings or other content on this website may be copied for personal viewing only. They may not be: redistributed; sold; altered; enhanced; modified by artificial, digital or computer imaging; used on another website or blog; posted to any internet or computer newsgroup, forum or media sharing site; nor used for any other purpose without the express written permission of the artist or KirwanArts.com.

Any images, writings or other content on this website may be copied for personal viewing only.
They may not be: redistributed; sold; altered; enhanced; modified by artificial, digital or computer imaging;
used on another website or blog; posted to any internet or computer newsgroup, forum or media sharing site;
nor used for any other purpose without the express written permission of the artist or KirwanArts.com.