Originally published in Inches magazine - January, 1997

Sergeant Gets The Balls Rolling

_____

"Look, man, I don't hurt guys if they're good boys. I got a beautiful smooth dick with a Mona Lisa mushroom smiling just for your mouth. All I want is for you to suck me off. Nice 'n' easy, all the way to my nuts!"

Well, what do you do with a proposal like that? And what do you do when it's thrown at you from left field, in the showers, by a balls-naked, six-one, blond cowboy from Montana? Especially when you're a summer-green regular and the guy happens to own your ass? Right. That's what you do.

"Sorry, sir... I'm not queer."

"I TOLD you! Y' don't call me SIR! I'm a SERGEANT! I'm not SIR!"

"Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant," I said, bouncing my big, half-hard prick under the running water to rinse the soap off. He grabbed me in his big hands, slamming me face-flat up against the wet tiles.

"I changed my mind! I'm gonna stick it in yer punk ass! I'm gonna fuck you with my hot cock 'til ya split, soldier!"

His rock-plum was a baseball punching at my hole. "No, Sergeant! Lemme go!"

"Barracks won't be in 'til chow, Private! I'm gonna bang your girlie legs off! We got three full hours, baby trooper, an' I'm gonna screw yer shitter every MINUTE of it!"

I tried yanking away from him but he slammed me harder, nearly cracking my ribs.

"You don't stop fightin', I'm gonna break yer fuckin' arms! Got it? RELAX! Open yer fuck-boy shitter for my rocket launcher dick, ya son of a fairy bitch!"

Again, he plunged his brass helmet like a hammer-head against my ass-crack, trying to find my asshole while I twisted and turned.

"Owww! Sergeant! Jesus, no! Please! Please! You'll kill me! Ohhh, please! Please! No!"

I remember sliding down the slippery tile—sliding, sliding down until my face was resting in the shower drain. It was as if he'd just let me go—just let me slither down onto the slimy floor. For some reason he had stopped.

I crumpled there in a lump, eyes closed, suddenly hearing a different crisp, clear voice.

"Don't stand at attention, for Christ's sake. You look like an asshole with your big dick sticking out of you. Well... Well... Pick him up! UP! UP! UP!"

"YES, SIR!"

I felt myself being lifted and planted on my feet, as if jolting me into position that way would prevent me from falling down again. Opening my water-logged eyes, wiping them dry so I could see.

"All right, Sergeant. Get out of my face. Go find a rock to crawl under. I'll deal with you, later."

"Yes, sir!" He saluted, still hard as a nail, and disappeared.

"Why aren't you in the field, soldier? Your group is coming off night training this afternoon. Why aren't you with them?"

"I was given barracks duty, sir." I tried to stand at attention as I said it.

"What is the sergeant from Company F doing in here?"

"I don t know, sir."

"You want to go on sick call?"

"No, sir."

"Very well. Finish your duty. What's your name?"

"Pfc Evan Phillips, Sir."

"Well, Private Phillips, I'm Lieutenant Lynch." He thumbed his name plate. "You come to me tomorrow after retreat. Fatigues will do. After chow. I'm in Room 17-M, main floor, P.I.O."

"Yes, Sir."

"You don't say anything about this to anybody, including your C.O. I'll speak to you tomorrow."

_________

All that afternoon, I thought about Lieutenant Lynch. He was almost my same height, five-eleven, with light brown straight hair cut short, yet not too short. His face was All-American Joe College—stern, almost frowning. He looked very young, but had to be older than my near-twenty because he was an officer; and his ears were the kind of ears that....

After lights out, my dreaming eyes couldn't close. I was wide awake that night—looking up at the ceiling—hearing the other guys breathe—wondering, thinking about Lieutenant Lynch.

Next day after retreat, I hit the mess hall quick, wolfing down my tray so I could be at P.I.O. Headquarters hopefully before Lieutenant Lynch. Room 17-M meant on the main floor level, which was one flight up. Scanning the long hallway, a large red sign said:

Room 17-M

D. Weinstein

Capt. Commanding.

Reaching the door, I stood there for a minute. The building was empty—they close at 5:00—and I just stood there, mostly afraid, I guess. Then, I went in. A long wooden waiting bench ran along the left wall, facing three large desks, their name plates clearly displayed. Captain Weinstein's was just in front of the big window as you came in; the two slightly smaller desks against the right: "Lt. F. Bravemann" and "Lt. C. Lynch." I went to Lieutenant Lynch's place, looking at the several mounted photos there. One was of him with a pretty Asian girl; another, I guess, of his parents. I pressed my crotch excitedly at one nine-by-twelve picture—it looked like a team-pose—a group of ten hunky studs in tight swim trunks. Immediately picking him out from everyone else, he was a handsome Johnny Apollo, sporting the beautiful chest and flat quarter-sized tits, and the fantastic smile you wanted to....

Footsteps approaching outside on the hard tiled corridor floor shot me back to reality with a jolt. Entering briskly, nodding at me, returning my salute, giving me orders again, Lt. Lynch told me to relax.

"At ease, Private. You may sit."

I couldn't believe it was the same guy. You're allowed to go civvy after retreat, and my hard-on was instant rock hard gaping at what he looked like going civilian. Wearing a tight and very short-sleeve shirt, the kind that shows your upper arms—hell, the kind that shows EVERYTHING—you could see his fucking tits—BIGGER than quarters. The two top buttons of his shirt were open, as if inviting me to unbutton the other three with my teeth.

"How long are you in, Private?"

I told him, trying not to look like a hot fairy rabid for his dick.

"Oh, then you're winding up Basic. Good."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you'll find it easier now. More time. Where are you assigned?"

"I'm not. Not yet."

He dropped the papers he was holding, swiveling in his chair. Then, he looked straight at me with his football-hero eyes.

"Would you like to work here?"

Without knowing the first thing about P.I.O., my reply came quickly. "I'd like that fine, sir."

He got up, came around the desk, sat on the edge of it, folded his muscular arms as he faced me. "You'll forget about Sgt. Montana. He has a lot of problems. He also has a sweet wife with four nice kids. I'm trying not to get him kicked. It would hurt them bad. Okay?"

What was I supposed to say—"No?"

Leaning forward without unfolding himself, he threw me a cloud-scent of clean sweat and after-shave that stung my flaring nostrils.

"And you won't 'Sir' me anymore when we're alone. My name is Cal."

He sat straight up again, rattling it off to me like a fact-sheet I was supposed to memorize. "I'm twenty-five. Divorced. We're still the very best of friends. She married a swell guy last spring, and me and the new old man get together for fun once a month. I live just off-base. Same house. Don't want to lose it; got it cheap. Do you type?"

He had to ask that last part again. "Do you type?"

"Oh... well... a little."

I got my first grin—a beautiful, fucking, dimpled guy-grin that went right through my pants and chewed on my cock—because he knew I was lying.

"That's okay. You don't have to type. You'll be good on TV public spots and radio plugs. It's all bullshit anyway. When other countries do it, we call it propaganda. But our own U.S. of A. brand, we call it the Public Information Office."

He glanced at his watch. "Only 6:27. Got a duplicate file at my place. Why don't we go there and fill out all the forms? Want to get you here before your people have different ideas. We can relax and have a few beers and get the... ball rolling. This way, I can start the wheels first thing tomorrow. We'll get you back to your company before lights out. Okay?"

By now, my G.I. crotch was swampy-wet with the steady pre-cum leak I was doing, and when I rose to leave with him, he pretended not to notice. We got to his small property in about ten riding minutes, digging right in. I never completed so many forms, but he said everything had to be filled out in triplicate with assignment stuff. My head, glued on the obsession of what he'd look like with all his clothes off, took almost half an hour to do fifteen minutes' work, and by then we were sweating bullets in the simmering August heat. Suddenly, casually, like you dream about it when you dream about it, he peeled off his wet short-sleever while I strangled on my tongue, gawking at this perfect porn-star hunk. Then crossing the table to my side, he started unbuttoning me without the trace of an expression, as the heat from his hands radiated under my chin.

"Hot as a bitch, Evan. Next year I'm gonna get A.C. Want another beer?"

I didn't because the other three were pouring out of me in streamlets. He helped me out of my shirt, telling me a way we could get comfortable.

"I have a gym in the basement. It's cool down there. We could pump it heavy for twenty minutes—really get the muscles up and the sweat going, you know? Then, a good shower to open up the pores. We'll be like new."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned, starting to go. "Come on. Come with me. I'll show you."

I trailed behind like a pet dog sniffing at his broad sinewy back glistening in my face—hunk flesh-candy I wanted to jump and chew on. I followed him down the wooden stairs to the mats and the bench and the weights, and there he was curling a seventy-five pounder, inflating his perfect bi's like leather balloons. After twenty lifts, he stopped.

"Pants are too hot. Gotta come off. You too, Evan. Get 'em off and grab a bar. That one over there. It's only fifty."

We went at it, and then, I was on the bench pressing a million pounds while this pumped sweaty hunk stood behind, holding my wrists, helping me, thrusting the bloated lump in his white jockeys above my face. I looked at it upside-down that way—my own throbbing mushroom popping like a wet, red plum out the side of my briefs. Cal took the bar, anchoring it, coming around the front. I started to rise up to get my God-damn dick inside, but he put his hands on my chest, laying me back again.

"Just relax, Evan. You did twelve good presses. You've got a nice muscular physique. Here, let's get those jocks away from you."

I arched up instinctively, helping him roll them down my legs and off. "There you go. Can't let anything get in the way of breathing, soldier." I turned my head, watching him step out of his own. "That's better. Yes. Breathing is important. You have to be free to breathe."

He was flapping a thick club-erected lob that had to be at least ten full ones, and I was up on my elbows going wild, popping at it in the now-steamy heat of the cellar. He straddled me squatting flat on my crotch, riding his hard buns in a slow back-and-forth grind across my rolling nine-inch prick. I remember banging my head sharply back on the bench, laying dead for him as he dry-fucked the pre-cum out of my bone. His hands slid up and down my slicked belly swiping at my nipples, pulling and pinching them into tight hard-ons 'til I couldn't breathe.

"You have nice, fleshy chest definition. Nice big hard tits, Private. Don't forget to breathe deep. You're not breathing. Yes. That's it. Oh, yes, very nice pecs. Strong smooth muscles. Breathe.... Breathe.... Deeply now...."

It was like I had headphones on, and this fucking recording was drumming into my brains; and the more he droned in his Lieutenant voice slicing his hot ass over my crotch, the dog-bitch crazier I got. He shimmied up 'til his knees were in my armpits, yanking my head forward so he could slap his monster-meat on my jaw.

"Open, Private Phillips. Yes. Open that big country boy mouth. Open it, I said. That's an order. Wider. Wider. That's it. Now... nice and easy...."

By a combination of goat-ramming and using both his hands behind my neck to pull me into it, I got ten inches of fat steer-dick clogged down my gullet 'til I was eating his scratchy crotch hairs and trying not to choke.

"Yes, soldier... that's nice... you like heavy, bad cock, don't you? Oh, yeah... you love it down your throat. I love it too. Yeah. I'm gonna fuck your teeth loose, Army man!"

He kept pumping while he talked, stuffing me sore 'til I got one of my hands free—thrusting it up at him like, "Hold it a minute! I want to say something! And he responded, yanking out his spit-slimed stabber.

"I can't...," I coughed out.

He frowned, cock-slapping my eyes again.

"Open your face and keep it that way." He pressed against my lips, but I went for one more go at hand signals. This time he was visibly pissed.

"What is your problem? You want Sergeant Montana working your tubes? You want me to sic him on you? Is that what you want, pretty Private?"

He clamped his thighs tighter—much tighter—almost cracking my ribs, and dropped down to my face as close as he could, still locking my neck.

My voice squeezed out from a bent-up windpipe, two octaves higher. "I gotta get up...."

He wasn't mad. Just disappointed. His contorted face almost whispered it. "You gotta do WHAT?"

"I gotta get up... I can't swallow this way!"

He let me have his hot grin again, hauling me eagerly to my feet. Then, I felt the trembling in his hands and didn't know why. We marched quickly up to his bedroom, where it was twenty degrees hotter. He could only say, "Evan, Evan," over and over, sitting on the edge of the bed, laying back on it with limbs spread wide in growing submission. While I still wondered as to his sudden change, I wasn't stupid about it. He wanted me to get down on my hands and knees and suck his big dick, and I intended following orders to the letter. But, oh, Jesus—can you see the beautiful guy lying there—his iron dong standing a foot in the air—this gorgeous Tarzan hunk spread-eagled wide for me to come play tongue games with?

I started on his strong meaty neck, while he grunted and groaned in high-pitched, faggoty Army officer moans. Feverishly, I brought his muscular arms down to his sides so the bulging pecs would give me plenty of flesh to pull up those luscious berries into my jaw. I did a cannibal run on them, twirling the hard points between my front teeth 'til he dribbled spit. Bringing the slave out in him—being his master now—it's a freak-out trip you can only fly when you plow love-it-in-the-ass military meat for yourself! I continued pigging on him, forgetting his cock until he crotch-bunted us sharply, imploring me to be a good soldier and follow orders.

"Evan! Suck me! I need it! Suck me off!"

I dropped dead-weight, lips-to-lob on his massive shaft. Pumping, groping, swigging his creamy spunk in gulps. I knew I'd have an all-day stiffer every day now working with Lieutenant C. Lynch in P.I.O.—a stiffer even rope wouldn't hold. I'd be called "Pfc. Evan Hard-on," because that would be my rightful name.

When I got through blowing him, we laid together on the bed, and he wanted my arms around him tight while he twisted my cock, telling me his own thing.

Then four sheets to the wind—blind-drunk with the excitement of his hot lusting for me—my ready-to-cum prick threatened to go solo unless I did something with it quick. Cal's final plea was that something.

"Take my ass, Evan! Finger-fuck it open and then rip it out with your big cock! Please, man! Plow my fuckin' ass. Shoot your load—shoot it in my hot hole!"

I was already there, screwing three digits knuckle-deep, his sucking rectum a snapping toothless mouth chewing on my fingers, trying to vacuum my entire hand into his bowels. He couldn't take more than a minute away from the real thing, shuddering head to toe like he had malaria.

"Oh, Evan! Hit me! It burns! I need cock! I need horse-dick in my soldier cunt! Come on, recruit! Fuck me! Fuck me!"

I grabbed his ankles, lifted them into the air, and punched nine fat inches up his shitter.

His bear-trap sphincter was like nothing I'd ever had. I hammered as hard as I could pound—pick-axing him with Bunyan hacks while my balls fed machinegun bullets into his dung pit, and I wondered was he going spaced-out getting it as much as I was giving it?

My dick was in bang-stick heaven, burning into the bone all the way down to my nuts! I wanted to scream, "I'm shooting it, Cal! I'm cumming off crazy in your ass! Feel it? Oh, Do you feel my hot spurge in your deep-shitter?  I'm doing it, sir!  I'm lobbing my love-jizz inside your beautiful bum, Cal!"—but I couldn't God-damn breathe. Lieutenant Lynch was squeezing out my eyes with his blood-sucking asshole, and he just kept whimpering with ecstasy until I showed the first signs of weakness. Then, he changed.

When my back gave out he got mad—flipping us over—my cock still buried in him up to the root.

"Keep it up, Private... Keep that stiffer going, God dammit!"

He sat down on me all the way, only swiping from side to side but doing it flat against my tired abs, so that I jerked in dry-cumming with each swipe. His hair glistened with sweat as he gazed at me in a hazy, drugged-out state through soft brown bedroom eyes.

"Evan... Ooooo... So fine... Sooo fine... Back and forth... Back and forth... How's that feel, huh? Your cream-bags nice and sore?"

I was pigging on every stud syllable, but he was killing me. "Cal... I'm wiped... I can't... Oh, shit... I can't go anymore—Ugh—Lift up, man... lift up off my nuts.... Please."

"Easy... Eeeasy! Big Buddy needs your nice dick!" He wouldn't stop grinding.

"Cal... Get off me... Please... Please! I'm dry! Get off me!"

"Easy... Eeeasy! Come again, baby. You can do it... squirt it into Cal's hot fuckin' asshole. Yeah. Oh, fuck it up into me... lemme feel that hard rammer up my itchy hole!"

He kept saying it, pitch-forking my blue nuts blind until I felt my cock reaching for the moon in his ass one more time. "Ugh! Cal! Oh, God! I'm gonna blow! Gonna cum!" I screamed.

"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Hit me, Private! Gimme fifty! Ugh! Punch my hole out! Ugh! Punch it out, soldier boy! Oh, pack it tight to me!"

He flew up and down, war-dancing me from the very tip of my mushroom to the ground floor. And as I screamed out a second load of boiling jizz deep in his fuck-chute, his own steaming juice globs exploded out the end of his dick, flying everywhere. He squat-jumped his full weight on my dead balls until I couldn't feel them anymore. Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam! An ass-cheeks jack-hammer sledged me without mercy. Wads of his thick, bleachy cum squirting me right between the eyes, sump-pumping the last drops of my load until the entire back frame of the God-damn bed broke completely away, throwing us at a sharp angle. Cal somersaulted backward off me, rolling ass-over-heels into the wall, while I stayed where I was, listening to us both groan.

"Oh, fuck this bed. Fuck this fucking bed. We'll sleep on the fucking floor... Jesus, Evan... set the fucking clock. On the dresser. I'll get you back for morning call.

I hauled us up on our feet, and he fell against me like a nude wrestler—limp, sweaty, sliding. I got him in the shower, soaping his deep ass-crack and rubber balls till my hands got tired.

I yanked the mattress onto the floor, covering it with a clean bed sheet, and we slept the entire night holding each other's dick.

Next morning I was the clock, getting us off to where we belonged. And two days after that—precisely like I said—I was "Pfc. Evan Hard-on," working at P.I.O., living up to my name. You can't believe the pre-cumming under my strap all day long—taking orders from my sharp handsome Lieutenant, saying "Yes, Sir" to him, watching him act so strict and military; so macho in command as a Second Lieutenant Information Officer. Then at night, he's a balls-naked slave in my arms begging for love—begging to be sucked and fucked inside out until he can't talk.

THE  END