Date: Tue, 3 Sep 2002 04:47:11 -0700 (PDT)
From: Sam Johnston <sammy_johnston@yahoo.com>
Subject: Straight Military Brat

Straight Military Brat

By Sam Johnston

Several months ago I had been invited to a Fort Lewis AFB [Air Force Base]
Military Grunt Function. Really it's only reserved for men in the service
and their wives or close family members, but I was let through with an
invite on this occasion because my good friend Chelle was pregnant. And
lord knows you couldn't depend on her lewd, selfish, and
testosterone-filled soldier of a husband for anything. Chelle was reaching
a full nine-month term at the age of eighteen. Given her Mormon upbringing,
she was married off at the turn of the New Year to someone she /thought/
she had loved. Whatever she saw in Mark I had absolutely no fathomable
clue. At least up until this point in time.

As it turned out - to no surprise - I was the one who went with Michelle to
her Childbirth and Labor Classes, masquerading as her pseudo-husband to get
the package deal they were offering. Since Chelle was disowned by her
strict Mormon parents for becoming pregnant /before/ getting married, I was
more or less her only line of faithful support. We'd grown up together
since the age of twelve; she was like my sister.

So, when this important assemblage for Mark rolled around, I had agree to
tag along to keep an eye on my rotund friend. Mark could care less. He just
wanted to meet with his buddies at this defunct Military Ball and cavort
socially with the upper ranks. Plus there was a rumored party at a mutual
friend's house, which would no doubt have plenty of alcohol for Chelle's
husband to load up on.

For the most part, both of us stayed parked beside the refreshment table
while Mark tromped off to rambunctiously shoot the breeze with his army
runt friends. However, I did try to make the best of it for Michelle,
telling her she glowed in that maternal way, and dancing with her when she
didn't feel too nauseous. She told me that she wanted to name their baby
boy after me, though we both let it go unsaid that Mark would never allow
that to happen.

He and I never saw eye-to-eye - and that wasn't because he was six foot
three and I six foot one. It was because he believed that whatever he said
was law, to be right, absolute truth. I knew he never bought into the
Mormon religion totally, and he despised my `Painted Technicolor Views'. I
believed in humanity, believed in peace through non-violent measures. He
scoffed at the weak, boasted that power above all else ruled society and
the world today. That brute power, through any means necessary, should be
honored, respected, and revered. Mark was the warmonger. I was the peaceful
pacifist. He was thickheaded and egocentric, while he claimed myself to be
`new age shitty'.

More than once he argued that if God didn't want us to build massive
weapons of destruction then he would have descended to crush our Earth by
now. This was always followed by a heinous laugh and I would feel entirely
repulsed by him - by his self-righteous beliefs. It drove me frustrated
that he would never - not even once - concede on a well-proven
argument. And I think what also contributed to my frustration was his
constant reverting to baseless name calling and childish taunts, leaving me
shaking my head in wonder of why I even /tried/ reasoning with him
whatsoever.

"Sam? Sam, you listening?" The timid voice of Michelle called out, rousing
me from my analytical critique of Mark.

"Hm? I'm sorry, what?" I replied rapidly, turning to the lovely mousy girl
in front of me. A smile appeared on my face, one of the ones I know myself
to use when apologizing for something that's my fault. In this case, not
listening.

"I was saying that I hope coming here didn't ruin any plans you might've
had with Sera." She repeated, offering me a fresh cup of tropical punch in
a Dixie cup. I turned it down. I had had enough punch that night to last a
lifetime.

"Sera's been spending this Spring Break with her father's family down in
Texas." I explained while glancing towards the rowdy guffaws coming from
Mark and his cronies' corner. Chelle ignored it.

"Oh." Simple in what it looks like, but it held a weight with me that she
wanted her opinion asked or for me to question her verbal sound.

"What?" I prodded, raising my eyebrows to emphasize this unknown equation
running through her mind.

"Isn't she the one with the crazy southern family?" Yes, that was my
college girlfriend's family alright. Sera came from a strictly conservative
republican background. One that differed vastly from my more liberal
outlook on life. Although, if you looked at it in a certain light, Sera's
family and Chelle's were a lot alike in the extremist venue. Yet Sera
remained independent, which was why I liked her in the first place: a sharp
mind and a vocal activist for the environment on the University campus.

"The one and only." I drawled out in announcer-speak, then crushed my
disposable cup for easy disposal.

"Well, aren't you afraid it's going to rub off on her?" Her face took a too
serious turn, green eyes watching me intently.

"Afraid that she'll contract the conservative disease?" I posed in the form
of a question of my own. A trite mirthful too.

"Pretty much." Michelle mewled innocently enough. I laughed. She smiled in
her cheeky, triumphant way. A commonplace item when a joke of hers
succeeds.

"Ready for another dance?" I offered my hand her way, to which she politely
took after setting down her twenty-some odd cup of punch.

"Most indubitably, sir." A phrase she'd coined from me some few years back.

And as we walked out onto the wooden dance floor, the music a soft
serenade, I tugged earnestly at the collar of my dress shirt. Tuxedos were
/not/ something I particularly liked wearing. It wasn't because I looked
wrong in them; it was more along the lines of me hating to wear dressy
clothes. I felt like a trapped domesticated puppy who's owner decided - on
a whim - to dress their loyal pet in some ludicrous outfit that found
adorable. Chelle noticed.

"You hate me, huh?" I blinked at her abrupt gush, setting into position
with her hand slipped in one of mine, the other lightly on her spongy
waist.

"For making you dress up." She elaborated with a chin-nod at my person that
caused me to look down at my black and white garbed self. Bleck. I
shuddered for dramatic effect, grinning at my overly pregnant dancing
partner.

"Nah. You just owe me." Came my simplified statement, which garnered a
returned smirk and a light hit on my chest before reverting into `official
dance position'.

Then Mister Holy-Hell himself decided to come over with a foul sneer
playing across his square-faced visage. His blonde buzz-cut hairstyle had
overgrown to about an inch longer than peach fuzz. I also took note that
his bow tie hung listlessly across his neck, untied, and his dress shirt
was untucked, blazer unbuttoned lazily. I sighed and Michelle glanced
behind her to notice the broad shouldered bulldog pressing his direction
our way. Mark's entire trained muscular frame screamed abundant
testosterone in my opinion. It fit his cocky powerhouse mentality and
personality perfectly.

"Hey peace-fucker." He `greeted' me with one of his shit-eating grins, one
that taunted me to start something futile with him.

"Hey. Hi." Chelle and I mumbled back. This seemed to sour his mood even
more. I could see the wrinkles on his forehead and between his scowling
eyebrows intensify.

"Fuck you, too." A grumbling remark. But then his reason for coming over
apparently struck his miniature mind, as he kind of brightened all of a
sudden. "Babe. Jared's party is still on. I told `em we're comin'
along. But, uh, do we have to drag the baggage along?" He meant me. I swear
I could smell booze on his breath, though I had no clue where he might have
gotten it from in this congregation. However, if anyone could sneak in beer
to a social event it would be Mark and his immature henchmen.

"Yeah. What if I went into labor? Are /you/ going to deliver this baby?"
She semi-dryly replied. I think she also smelt the liquor on his breath,
which would explain her sudden dour expression. Chelle hated alcohol abuse
because her father drank excessively and ended with him physically hurting
her weak mother or herself. Another reason why I disliked her jock-joke
husband, and encouraged her to be a more stronger woman.

"Ugh. Hells, no!" It was so pathetically sad, that it almost hinted at
funny. "The shit can come then."

The Ball ended and we all filed out into carloads to be transported to
Jared's party. Mostly the low rank soldiers were in the know, or showed up
to this typical rowdy `kegger' bash. Whatever it was, I didn't care. All I
was thinking about by now was how much I wanted to be home reading my new
book authored by Jim Marrs. Or calling to check on Sera. To say I had
flashbacks to mindless, ostentatious high school parties or your
run-of-the-mill frathouse parties was an understatement. Half-naked grunts,
blatant sexual activities on every couch, counter, and windowsill, booming
music that was so loud I barely could hear Chelle speak...

Don't picture me prude. I do love the casual party, but not raunchy, showy
kinds like this - not anymore, that is. Plus I was a bit concerned for
Michelle's unborn in such a smoky, reverberating environment.

"You really should stand up to him more often." I halfheartedly found
myself saying to my friend in the kitchen, somewhat removed from the `main
events' of the raging ensemble through the swinging door.

"I know... You're right." I didn't expect her to hear me with the music so
loud, but I accepted it as fate for her to catch what I continuously told
her.

"Why don't you go home? I can stay and make sure Mark gets home in one
piece." My mind shot up red flags, or maybe it was my intuition... and I
should have listened, but I passed it off as me just not wanting to stick
around for, and with, Michelle's husband. "Maybe." I smirked
mischievously. She smiled and shook her head.

"I never know what to do with you." Followed with a sigh. It was then that
I noticed her skin took on a pallor hue - deathly pale. "I probably should
go home..."

"Are you feeling okay...? You look sick." I reached out a hand to touch her
sweaty forehead.

"Gee, thanks. It's just Mother Sickness." She answered. A way for her to
say that she was suffering the wonderful maternal effects of carrying a
baby to term. I didn't know how a waif of a girl like her was going to be
able to push such a large seven pound baby... but I didn't care to linger
on those kinds of thoughts.

A disheveled friend of Marks with dark brown hair came in then, his shirt
literally ripped open down the front, and his slacks no where to be seen,
leaving him with some sort of sailboat boxers and black socks.

"Go on ahead. Isn't there someone that could drive you home?" I felt the
prickly sensation of Crony One staring at me in the middle of getting
himself a glass of orange juice - no doubt for a screwdriver drink. The
pervading sense of being /watched/ unnerved me. Being spied upon.

"Yeah. Maria can give me a ride if I ask her." Maria was one of Chelle's
church friends. Always the homebody and another unfortunate who'd married
into this crowd of Military brats. Unlike the others, however, Maria's
husband was fairly decent. Didn't drink. Didn't smoke. Didn't do
drugs... He just had trouble with cheating on his wife...

"Good." So after she called and arranged with Maria to be taken home, we
said our good-byes and parted. Meanwhile, Crony One had disappeared in the
midst of those ten minutes of planning. No sooner had Chelle left did Sir
Manners storm through the swinging kitchen door with several lacquered and
drunk buds. I could tell by the purple-red anger in his restrained face,
and the balled fists at his sides that this wasn't going to be
pretty. Mark, when drunk, was ten times the maniac fanatic he was when
sober. The stark contrast between his blazing piercing blue-fire eyes and
twisted expression became eerily evident as he closed within inches of my
face.

"What th' fuck do'ya think you're doin'!?" He slurred heavily, droplets of
spittle pelting my face. He shoved his barrel chest into me, vying for some
kind of mundane alpha male syndrome supremacy.

"What are you talking ab-" I tried to be neutral, but it came off sounding
more annoyed with his whole bravado show.

"Where th' fuck do you get th' right ta tell my wife what she can and can't
do, shitface! Huh?" Again with the chest bumping, which I disregarded. He
didn't frighten me at this point. All he was managing to do was irritate
the hell out of me.

"I never told her what to do, /Mark/." I mocked his name, possibly bad on
me in the heat of the moment. "She said she was feeling ill, so I suggested
she should go home. That's all."

"I knew it! Pig-shitter! Tellin' my wife what she-" This time I interrupted
him, going from irate to angry at this whole entire night. The music. The
favors I was doing, but only receiving crap in return for. Having to deal
with this gorilla on my own. Everything.

"She's not your damn property! Get it through your thick skull, you
sadistic ignoramus." I was sick and tired of constantly hearing him and
seeing him treat Michelle like a car he owned. My night was shot to hell,
and I wanted to leave him to fall down cement stairs in his drunken stupor.

His eyes nearly bulged out of his face at the insult. I never have resorted
to shameless immaturity in the past, and this seemed to amuse him as well
as infuriate him more than ever. I could practically see the veins in his
neck and face pop up, like he'd been pumping iron for the past hour. Most
of the turmoil and idiotic quarrel I have forgotten by now since there was
so much of it. So many things said in the heat of the moment. But I do
remember embarrassing him in front of his friends with some of the things
Michelle had told me about him. Almost to the verge of his eyes misting up
- them being so close I could see every detail in his glacier gelid-blue
irises. Feel the heat rising from his tense body beneath his
half-unbuttoned shirt and black trousers.

Finally the boiling point broke and he crossed a line he had never before
dared to cross: he shoved me. I didn't expect this kind of physical contact
in the foggiest, so the momentum threw me backward against the sink
countertop. I could feel my lower back beginning to ache already as my hand
clung to it to keep me standing. A few who had gathered that weren't part
of Mark's little `gang' kept him captive from throwing anymore shoves, or
worse yet, punches. My senses seemed to awash me in a deluge of
self-realization of what was transpiring, and I especially didn't want to
be in the same room as the hostile beast of burden.

Jared had been there for some of the argument, so when I quickly left to
the upstairs bathroom he trailed behind like a fearless fly, squeezing
through dancing bodies and calling my name. I didn't want to listen to
him... Actually, I thought that since he was basically Mark's best friend
that he'd want to chew me out too, but usually he was level-headed and the
one who kept Mark under control.

"Sam!" He shouted as I tried to close the bathroom door on him. "Don't
blame Mark - he's drunk." Not a good enough excuse, I thought, and began to
shut the shut the door again. He caught it.

"Wait! Really, it's not his fault, Sam. Did he tell you that his mother
died of cancer yesterday?" My grip on the tan doorframe loosened. I knew
his mother had been fighting breast cancer, but this was news to me. Even
Michelle hadn't told me about that.

"What?" I asked skeptically, gauging the sincere expression plastered on
Jared's rather geeky face. It fit that he was part of the military's
Intelligence. To me, anyway.

He nodded. "His dad called right before he and Michelle left this
evening. He's under a lot of stressful shit - it's not his fault." Always
the defender of his highschool buddy. The twisted loyalty was beyond
me. Whatever friendship they shared... who knew? I sure didn't.

I gave a pensive sigh, confessing to myself that I was now feeling
sympathetic for the abrasive lug. "And he hasn't gotten laid in seven
months either. Michelle being pregnant, you know."

I rolled my eyes at this. The previous reason had been more acceptable and
weighty than this one. I think Jared could tell that it was a bit
misplaced, so he reverted back to his previous appeal.

"We'll calm him down, don't worry. Just... don't try to take it out on him
too much." I grumbled inside briefly, but accepted this. I wouldn't take
any of it personal, so long as he didn't either. I, myself, had lost a few
close relatives to cancer in my life of nineteen years. I could
understand. I could. I hoped.

Jared seemed satisfied enough, disappearing back into the crowd while I
shut the bathroom door for some privacy. It was a sparse room with a
counter-cabinet skin, mirror, toilet, and shower/bathtub. minus the
curtain. I turned on the water to lukewarm and tried, with my back facing
the mirror and my head looking over my shoulder, to see the bright red mark
several inches above the waistband of my slacks. I took my blazer off,
which was hampering my view, and threw it across the toilet. Then I fully
tugged my starched dress shirt out for easier access to my lower back. I
frowned at the scarlet mark on my peach-beige skin. But I couldn't do
anything about it now.

Instead I splashed some water on my face, wiped it dry, and gave myself a
long look in the mirror while reviewing what I had said and done. About
Mark's mother. How Chelle was feeling. How /annoying/ the bass-ridden music
was. I combed through my medium brown, parted hair with my fingers, giving
another sigh to myself. My face looked flushed and slightly tense still. I
grimaced at the leftover suit I still had adorning my swimmer's
frame. Didn't like it at all. I moved forward to the mirror and found my
light brown eyes had become somewhat bloodshot.

My thoughts turned to my height of six foot one inch. I felt short for some
odd reason, as sometimes I unnecessarily critique myself. And depending on
the self-esteem day I caught myself on I could either term myself horribly
ugly or dashingly handsome. I was always feeling inadequate, no matter how
many relentless compliments I received.

The door opened and to my sinking dissatisfaction it was none other than
Mark. Although he looked more tapered, methodical, and. lucid. This alone
should have made me flee on the spot but I thought him to have just calmed
down.

"And you call me sumer. suzperfical." He belched resoundingly in his
callous demeanor. I gave a haggard puff of air. A showing of exasperation.

"I don't want to get into this again, Mark." I replied weakly, having
already expended my negative fuel of emotions for that night.

"Good, asshole. Th'en thiss'll be easier for both of us." Definitely
intoxicated. No doubt in that. I saw him looming closer to me, kneading his
knuckles or something of the like.

"I don't want to fight." I warned him, putting my hands up in a surrender
position as I turned to face him. He just smirked, showing off his large
white teeth. And I truly didn't want to fight this trained army grunt. He
was green beret and could easily take me down out of his superior knowledge
of combat. I, on the other hand, was only trained in Yoga, kickboxing, and
tennis for crying out loud. His two hundred twenty pound body of compact
muscle outdid my one hundred ninety pounds of lean, broad-shouldered
muscle. I was far from `shrimpy' but nearly looked it next to his above
average build. Then, as well as now, I could hear myself mentally chiding
Mark being all muscle and no brains.

"I do." He breathed out right in front of me. Invading one's personal space
was supposed to make another person feel threatened. I did feel threatened,
but I wasn't going to let him bash my face in despite my harmonious
beliefs.

"C'mon, Sam. Show me whatcha got." The tone in his voice rasped in almost a
deathly tone. His piercing blue eyes staring rather alert into mind - even
in his inebriated state. I took a second to get my bearings, feeling my
muscles tense up, and planning to bolt past him to the door. A good plan in
theory, but one that was my downfall in actuality.

I tried to zip past him, but was met with two beefy arms wrapped around my
waist, pulling me backwards from the goal to freedom. He held steadfast on
my tailored pants' waistband and shook me from side to side, somewhat in a
back-crushing hug. I could feel my lungs deflate from the lower pressure
placed on my waist. A loud whoosh of air, accompanied by a drawn out grunt
as I tried helplessly to unlock his arms. He laughed bawdily, finding the
entire situation funny, I guess.

When he did let go, he sort of threw me towards the toilet, ripping the
button off the front of my slacks, and breaking the zipper as well. I hit
the linoleum flooring like a sack of potatoes. It didn't hurt per se', but
the rising urgency to break free from that bathroom invaded my senses. I
tried to scramble to my feet though a hefty weight landed on my back. A
hefty, rashly chuckling weight. I felt his large hangs grapple onto my hips
as I tried to squirm and shimmy away from him. And I naively thought I was
succeeding in getting away, but really all I was doing was de-panting
myself, leaving him holding the empty slacks along with leather dress shoes
and blinking at them in a dumbfounded way of why I wasn't in them. As I got
to my knees, he sat back on his haunches, so I took the confused few
seconds to kick him in the chest.

It set him off balanced, falling flat on his back. He stayed down as I got
to my feet, dressed only in my white button-up shirt and hanes white-briefs
now. I figured him to have passed out, so I vaulted over his body in hopes
of getting away from Mark and this party. I didn't care that I was
half-naked. It was better than remaining at that hellish get-together any
longer. However, my futile attempts were unfounded and I found myself
falling face-first into the linoleum flooring again. The daze of the
jolting impact lasted a few moments, my mind recollecting itself in
understanding that Mark had grabbed my feet mid-jump across his body. I
felt him worm his way up my back, felt his heaving chest and clenching
muscles work as he positioned himself right atop of me.

"Pretty frisky for a peace-fucker." He growled in my left ear, the stench
of his alcoholic breath nearly choking me every time I caught a whiff of
it. I felt his hands encircle my wrists and pull them sternly behind my
back, rendering my nearly helpless to do anything. He overpowered me by
brute strength two-to-one.

"Get off me!" I shouted, trying to buck him off. It ended up with me
rocking forward and backwards, writhing beneath his smothering weight. I
began to sweat from the heat of the house, and the heat of our two bodies
being so close. His legs did a maneuver that tucked his feet around the
fronts of mine, locking them stationary. The only thing it enabled me to do
was open and close my legs - like that was going to get me anywhere. A
sinister, faint laugh brushed across my ear. He knew I was practically
immobile.

"Y'know, you smell pretty good." His boisterous laugh reached a baritone
crescendo, enjoying that he was able to demean and teas me. I again bucked
from under him, rocking forward and backwards vehemently in attempt to
throw him off. Being that we were about the same height, his crotch was
somewhere around the bubble of my rear. In effect, I guess I was
unintentionally stirring his cock awake. I didn't really know what it was
until I could feel it lengthening down the clothed crack of my ass. Both of
us went totally still then, and totally silent. I think the odd mix of
thoughts ran through both of our heads, and I desperately wanted him to
throw him off.

"Get off me, Mark." I ordered as calmly as I could, trying to sound
diplomatic about the whole scenario. He hummed as if in thought.

"Mmm-no." Another delirious chuckle as if every movement we did was
humorous. "Fact, I think you like it like this. I bet you're a fuckin'
cocksucker, huh?" My eyes widened at this atrocious falsified accusation. I
think I even started coughing from sheer surprise.

"What the-Just get off of me. You've had your fun." I decided insulting him
back would be the definite wrong choice, and that my only option was to
appeal to him through some kind of verbal connection he understood. A
short, faint bubble of laugh came and went. I felt him move, but I didn't
know what exactly he viewed as funny until I felt one of his expansive
hands wedge between my hips and the floor to give a squeeze at the bulging
basket of my whities.

"H-hey! Mark!" I protested out of confused disbelief. However, I think it
was my protesting that made him begin to knead my very slowly growing cock
through the somewhat ribbed material. Inside I was panicking, now knowing
what to do, what to think, what to say. I felt betrayed that my manhood
would even /think/ of rousing awake in the midst of this conflicted
confrontation. Didn't it know how much I detested this fellow? How much I
couldn't stand him?

"I knew you were'a faggot." Mark almost softly murmured into my ear, his
hand beginning to speed up the frequency of its massage. It began to become
painful being pressed against the hard floor, my bones and muscles
straining, my cock filling with blood, becoming fully erect within the
confines of the briefs, Mark's hand, and upon the floor.

"This isn't funny anymore-ow, damnit." My annoyance flared up again, mostly
because of his enjoyment of my degradation and the pain it was causing. And
I was so concentrated on my own feelings for the time being that I didn't
notice he had positioned his crotch so that his swollen member was pressed
between my buttcheeks like a hotdog to a bun. Slowly he started very minor
jerks of his hips forward and back across my upturned ass, heavily
breathing into my ear. I, for one, didn't know what else to say. I could
curse and threaten all I wanted though it'd do no good. I clung to the
thought that he just wanted to either hump me and be done with it or
humiliate me tremendously by somehow getting me aroused by this so he could
tell everyone how `gay' I was.

"I'm gonna teach you how force and strength are th' only wayss tha' th'
world can be ruled by." I didn't quite catch his drift. other than the fact
he had overpowered me using brute manpower. "An' I'm gonna show you how
shitty fags like you need to be submerse. submiss. fuck it." Now, I was
quite frightened for my health. Was he going to beat me? Or force me to
suck him off or something defacing such as that?

I sighed in relief as I felt his hand leave the front of my straining
briefs. Maybe he wanted this all to stop? How wrong I was! There was a
lessening of weight upon me, a jingle, then an overpowering pungent scent
of musk that stuck on the air. A mixture of sweat, sourness, and... well,
sex. I instinctively knew that he'd just pulled his cock free of his black
slacks. My mind reeled.

"Mark? Mark. I'm not gay. Come on, Mark, let me up. I'm sorry." I tried to
rattle off everything I could think of at the time. Trying to hit every
base from apology, comraderie, revelation, to guilt. "I heard about your
mother. I know you're hurting. You really don't want to do this." I tried
to pull my hands free from his leftover grip, yet I found myself not able
to even budge or deter his hold one-centimeter.

The only thing he answered with was another one of those aggravating hardy
laughs that bespeak of hidden agendas and jokes that are on you, only you
don't know them. "Whatever, Sam. I'm gonna fuck your faggot ass good, and
you're gonna like it."

"Don'-" Before I could even begin pleading or persuading him not to do what
he had his one-track mind set on, I felt his free hand wretch my underwear
off my ass and down me thighs. "I-I'll yell for help." My defunct
advantage, or so I numbly figured.

"Go `head. I like loud fucks." I felt him strategically placing himself
across my back again, squishing my hands useless with the brunt of his two
hundred pounds. This way it left both his hands free. "Ain't like anyone
can hear you." He was right about that. The damn music was blasting so loud
that no one outside the bathroom would be able to hear my shouts.

Wasting absolutely not time, I felt the engorged plumb of cockhead being
guided between my fleshy cheeks. The vibrant heat and beating warmth that
came along with this near-foreign object surprised me. And sent ripples of
cold fear shooting down my spine. With lackadaisical effort he began to
press forward, sinking an inch or so between my fleshy globes before the
tip of his intruder met the closed circlet ring of my hole.

"Mark, please." I begged once more, not relinquishing too much weakness in
show for him. I didn't want him to think I was totally void of pride,
courage, or wits. He stopped. I closed my eyelids, counting the beats of my
pounding heart. One, two, three, four, five, six.

"Okay." Came the stoic answer. My breath caught in my throat. "I'll make it
easier for you." My heart sank back to the cesspool pits. I watched as he
reached above both of us for one of the shampoo bottles. Green. I hear the
flip-top sound, then the farting sound of the liquid soap squirting all
over his hand. I closed my eyes again, wondering why me and how did I get
into this. The cool makeshift lube I'll never forget. It was slick,
obviously soapy, and gunky. I felt two of his elongated, large fingers
thoroughly slick my crack, bud, and perineum. The generous amount given was
a small gift I relished in. Looking back, I dare not want to think what
kind of damage he might have caused if he didn't use anything to help with
his entry.

This time a slippery, fumbling cock that felt pretty thick from where I was
laying slide right through to press against my asshole. About two thirds of
his bulbous cockhead sank past my barrier, forcing it open with sheet
strength much like everything Mark did. I grunted in surprise. Steadily did
he put amassing pressure upon my hole until it finally enveloped the whole
of his glans. But he didn't stop there, no. He continued to push on in
until one inch... and then another inch demanded its way inside. Squeezing
my eyelids tightly together, I think I let out a loud moan of pain.

"It hurts, it hurts - god!" I found myself repeating, once again trying to
wriggle my way away from him but coming with the end result of rocking
forward and back. I could feel those two planted inches pull back, then
forward with a bit more, back, then forward with a bit more. I guess his
cock must have gotten halfway past my widened hole by the time I was
done. He sort of let out a shudder on top of me. I stopped and laid
still. I didn't quite feel like crying... but I hated feeling defiled
against my will, humiliated, stripped of dignity, and helplessly
submissive.

No matter, Mark took up the rhythm I left off, beginning to draw the
several inches out from me until just the head of his cock was left, and
then pushing himself back in again. This went on for countless cycles,
gradually loosening and opening up my pillaged cavern for this military
jackass. By now he had his hands snaked to set under my hips so he could
pull me back against him for added leverage with each encouraging sweep his
cock made. In. Out. In. Out. I could tell he began to get into this and
enjoy it because he started giving these deep, rumbling growls or `mmms'
that drawled on and on. Only breaking with every shove of his hips into
mine. The unthinkable pain that I felt slowly began to ebb away, which
left me feeling numb, distanced, detached, and in a state of shock. I
even thought that I blacked out for a handful of seconds there.

The feeling of this steely rod pulling and pushing through my bowels is
still indescribable to me. It was incredibly weird. Awkward. Filthy. I just
wished that he'd blow his nut quickly so this would be over with. Soft
moans began to seep out from between Mark's lips. Lips of which were
rubbing along the shell of my ear. And when I felt his pubic, wiry bush
tickle/scratch at my gluey anus, I knew he had reached capacity. I felt
bloated and full. Like I had to take a dump or I'd internally explode. Each
stroke brought relief then filled discomfort. Relief. Discomfort. Relief.
Discomfort.

What really threw me for a loop was the rising heightened feel of my
relaxed body beginning to warm over and tingle with that wave of sexual
prospect. The welling feeling you get when you're about to partake in sex,
the precursor to the deed. And that's when I felt the gradually increasing
pulses of pleasure that each thrust into me began to send. Like a ripple
through my body, or a resonating tone of sound. I heard myself beginning to
softly grunt with each of his cock-shoves, beginning to timidly push my ass
back against each push his erect fuckpole gave. I couldn't believe it!

"Yeah... Yeah..." Mark's new adopted phrase per each movement, for each
stroke. "Ohh, yeah."

I felt my once wilted cock fill with blood quicker than I thought possible
given the circumstances. I winced at the mix of pleasure and pain from the
position and the cock in my ass. And I found myself getting into it
swiftly, like Mark. "Un... un... uhnn..."

I was becoming fairly vocal by then, and. well, enjoying the feelings that
he was allowing me to feel, still in my hog-tied-like position. I opened my
legs further, widening them for him, I guess. He took notice of all this.

"Yeah, fucker. Ugh. Shit. I knew you'd like this." He matter-of-factly said
between cursing groans. "Fuck!" He cried in appreciative surprise now that
my parted legs allowed him more of a length to plummet into, and somewhat
of a more tightened hold upon his cock. "Oh, fuck, fuck - god, your ass is
goo-shit!"

I felt him begin to piston faster inside of me, and I was feeling rather
relieved that he might cum and be over with it. But then, oddly, I also
felt cheated because here I just started to enjoy what started as rape, now
ending up with mutual carnal pleasure by using one another for
sex. However, if he came, then I'd be left with nothing again. It made me
insecure and confused to think such things - while this muscled-out blonde
was plowing my ass. Though he didn't ejaculate. I think he just finally
really let himself get into the twisted ecstasy he could receive from this
act that was now transcended humiliation and malignant superiority.

My small grunts and groans now turned into decent audible ones. Ones that I
could hear echo in the bathroom along with Mark's more audaciously vocal
ones. The strokes slowed enough so that he could reposition himself,
letting up on my hands so that I pulled them sorely down to my sides. They
ached like you wouldn't believe, but... I was more focused on how intense
these euphoric waves supplied by Mark's cock could get. He didn't seem to
care that my hands were free. Although perhaps he knew, from my grunts,
that I wouldn't be trying to get away. Just yet.

His hands pulled my hips up so that I could brace myself with my knees
against the linoleum - a sort of doggystyle position. My hands held tight
onto the rim of the tub, and I pushed out or something that cued the
half-clothed military runt to resume pounding my ass. I felt my face
scrunch tight as he started a /real/ rhythm using his notable strength,
pulling my hips hard onto his cock. My entire body tingled. I felt as if I
was already on the verge of blowing my spunk - without even touching
myself! I didn't know how much longer I could last his merciless fucking.

"Fuck, tha' feelss'so nice. Awh, fuck, yeah." He hunched himself across my
back, leaning some of his weight upon me, and moving his hands to wrap
around my middle instead. The force of his stokes were causing us both to
really flail around along the ground, and if it weren't for me holding
steadfast upon the tub, I think we both would've knocked ourselves
unconscious on the porcelain. His large hands ran across my stomach and
chest, squeezing each of my nipples and meager pecs as if they were
breasts, I wager. It was enough to send me hurtling close to that point of
no return.

"Jesus...! I'm almost..." I couldn't get the entire thing out without
bursting into another series of moans, but Mark picked up on it.

"Shit, not yet, bro!" He strained, pulling himself clear of my arsehole
with a noisy slurping sound. I felt the cold air sting my gaping hole. It
didn't hurt really; my frustrated drive and mindset on cumming drove me to
forget anything but getting Mark's cock back inside me. I cared not if this
was such a `gay' act; I wanted it bad. My logical wheels began to crank and
I noticed that a) this was /Mark/ I was with. b) I disliked him so much,
and c) he called me `bro' instead of `peace-fucker' or some other
derogatory name. What - did he think this was some kind of bonding ritual?
I was beginning to get upset with him. Most of all, disgusted. Yet I still
wanted to get off in a bad way. I've never felt anything that intense my
entire life. My orgasms were nothing compared to the feeling of this
building within my body.

"Speed it up, Mark." I mumbled. Or something urgent like that. He
laughed. A genuine one. Another frightening thing, as if we were /friends/.

"Fuckin' hell. You want my cock bad, huh?" He gloated. I kind of sagged and
sighed in that pensive way I usual do when dealing with him. I guess he
kind of sensed the change, so he added, "Me too. Your ass is hot." At least
he saved me from becoming totally disinterested in what we were
doing. Knowing that he was getting bothered and hot from what I supplied
made me completely enthralled again.

I turned over to sit on the floor gently, my ass feeling rather raw and
empty. This was the first time I had ever seen Mark in anything less than a
shirt and shorts. His shirt had been removed somewhere along the line to
reveal his lightly hairy developed chest, his treasure trail leading down
his abs, and his rounded shoulders. The hair on his body was more wiry and
coarse than my own, but I had a fair amount more hair on my body than he
did. I wasn't too hairy, just a bit more than usual guys my age... Fairly
hairy. I was struck with how Mark's hair made him look more `manly'. I
could feel his eyes roaming across my body as I was surveying his. I guess
we were both were comparing. An up close, uninhibited sort of study you
couldn't do with regular mates.

He still had his pants on, unbuttoned and unzipped, boxers tucked beneath a
heavy-looking ballsack devoid of hair. They looked like obese
golfballs. His pubes were light brown, and trimmed neatly. At least he was
clean. Must be an army thing. Then I really looked at what had been fucking
my rear agape. It wasn't as thick as it felt; Somewhere around seven
inches, arcing left to a varied degree. The scarlet-red helmet head of his
circumcised cock was somewhat like my own, except that his was more slicked
back whereas mine was plump. The slimy sheen of shampoo clung to his shaft,
and I saw Mark reach to gently begin tugging at his length while he sized
me up - which made me ready to go more than ever. I don't know why. Maybe
it's my self-esteem or acceptance complex.

I watched for a second as one of his hands unconsciously rubbed down his
lightly defined abs, the other having its fingers encircle his rod to jack
slowly. He seemed remiss or nervous now. "I never thought a guy would do it
for me."

I didn't want him to back out now, not when we were so close. Or I was so
close, I should say. My selfishness had kicked in when the budding pleasure
did. "Where do ya want me?" I tried to sound jocular, nonchalant. It seemed
to work. He gave one of his sly shit-faced grins.

"On th' tubseat. I wanna see you blow your shit as I fuck you." I noticed
his masturbating hand quickened its pace as he said this. I wasn't too
clear on what he meant but I shed my shirt, stepped out of my whites, and
climbed into the tub. I hear him getting to his feet as I positioned myself
askew upon the tiled seat, as if kneeling on the thing.

"No, bro." I felt his large hand on my side, pulling me. "Turn `round an'
sit. I wanna see your face." I did as was asked of me, hunkering down in
the seated position. His arms hefted my rather lean-muscular legs over his
broad shoulders, placing his hands near my asscheeks, pulling me forward
and up further to expose my loosened hole.

"Shit." He breathed loud enough for me to hear as he looked at my exposed
bits. Before, when I couldn't see him, it was okay. But now under his
scrutinizing stare I felt greatly shy. I guess he liked what he saw, or was
about to push into. I, myself, wasn't sure on this compact position,
hesitant about his face and mine being so close while we fucked. Maybe he
wanted to see me... but I couldn't really say I wanted to see him when I
came. He was still /Mark/.

Nevertheless, once his cockhead found its way into my ass, I groaned in a
guttural way. I saw him grin to himself, watching himself push his length
back inside me in one swift push. We both grunted in unison. Then I felt
his eyes locking onto my face, taking on his usual serious, `don't fuck
with me' expression. The one he wore all the time. His neutral one, you
could say. I had to look away. I felt him start his slow, calculated
rhythm. His piercing blue eyes still on my turned face. I could feel my
feet begin to bob somewhat with each sweep from his thrusts. "Yeaahhh." He
moaned as he turned the pace up a few

paces, forcing my back to be pressed back and up against the corner seat of
the tub.

"Come on, faster." I urged, kind of startled at what I was suggesting but
shoving it from my mind so I could concentrate on just indulging in the
animalistic enjoyment. He did comply, however. Shoving himself faster and
faster until satisfied with my soft moans of gratitude.

"Play with my pecs, bro. C'mon." It almost was as if he was trying to get
me to hold his cotton candy at the fair, or lend him the newest Playstation
video game I acquired. So long as I was `happy,' I didn't care what I
did. I turned my face to spy his flexing and relaxing pectorals, slightly
tanned from the early spring sun. I reached up to squeeze them, noticing
that how hard then soft they were. "Mmmph." Apparently I was doing it
right.

"Harder." I advised him, feeling my six-inch piece of meat throbbing faster
than my heartbeat - if that were possible.

"What?" His tone held sort of that want of sexual clarification I
encountered from past experiences.

"Fuck me harder." I restated, this time a little louder. He grunted deeply,
again using his strength as leverage to pump his self over and over into my
butthole with no second thoughts. Now I really felt like my body was alight
like a burning wildfire. I could feel him filling me with every inch of his
girth to the point of nearly bursting, then doing it again. Each time he
hit something inside me - my prostate, I understand - that kept sending me
into contorted ecstasy. Both of us were saturated with sweat at this point,
and had came to the point of near-shouting each grunt, groan, moan, and
curse of pleasure.

My hands didn't stop playing with his chest, and even adopted playing with
his contracting stomach. His hands took up squeezing my asscheeks every
other thrust or two. "Fuck, Mark. Fuck -" I didn't notice that I had been
cursing so much, since I hardly ever do. It seemed to turn him on,
however. His reddened, perspiring square-jawed face I'll probably never
forget as he said, "Shit, Sam. I'm gonna blow. Shit, shit, shit."

But by this time, just hearing that I was going to make him cum, hearing
him actually say my name, tossed me over the edge. I grabbed my stiff prick
in one hand and, like a blur, began to pound away. "Fuck,
yeah. Shoot. Fuckin' cum for me." In no less than five strokes did I feel
my face scrunch fiercely, my balls withdraw, and the overwhelming oceans of
orgasm spurt from my aching cock. "Ugghhh!"

Never in my life had I endured such an intense orgasm before. /Never/. Nor
have I ever shot like I did. Two volleys reaching my shoulder, one on my
chest, two more across my stomach, and the last two just coating my
softening cock, shaft, and balls. I felt alienated by Mark's eyes as I
finally opened my lids to see him bearing down on my spent body, focusing
so vigilantly upon my white cum trails and dripping cock.

Yet no sooner did my lasting spasms end, did his just begin. With a loud
bellow - great roar actually - did he begin to jerk and convulse violently
atop me. "Oh, Fuuuuuucccck!!" It sounded squeezed off, tight, almost
painful. I could feel his tool expand within me just before shooting jet
after jet of molten hot cream /inside me/. I think I grimaced at feeling
him actually cumming /inside/ of me, but I was still under the afterglow
effects of my own orgasm. Several shots. I lost count after four, too tired
to even keep track. But his sizable balls must have been a clue to his
voluminous outpouring because there was so much that I could feel it squish
free from around his cock to flow down the seat of the tub. His face rested
against my shoulder, and as I was looking at him I began to feel revolted
at what we just did - at who he was I did it with. He was on me. I let him
fuck me. I liked it.

I just wanted to get away now.

Mark caught his breath after a moment, pulling his semi-hard-on out from
me. I shivered as the pent-up amount of cum drooled out of my sore ass. And
I don't know whether it was hurt or confusion on his face as I pushed
myself away to begin putting on my clothes. Once I was fully dressed and
checking myself in the mirror, he got out from the tub to dress too. He
didn't seem to phased by what we did. I guess. But the ever-present silence
permeated the once echoing room. Music still boomed dully in the
background. There was true inexpedience lingering between the both of
us. Who knows why the vulgar soldier took it upon his self to break the
silence.

"So, uhm, you're coming to our BBQ Saturday. Right?" Michelle and Mark were
celebrating - albeit belatedly - their unborn child. Sort of like a shower
but coed so everyone was allowed to come. In my opinion it was another
excuse for Mark and his buds to get drunk.

"Sure. Yes." I too quickly replied with, draping my blazer across my
forearm and reaching for the doorknob of the bathroom. Freedom! My mind
screamed.

"Cool." He positively acknowledged. It was like the Twilight Zone now, and
I didn't want any part of it. Mark being nice? I nodded and managed to
somehow get myself home and into the shower. I threw off about two tons of
conscience-weight that I'd have to sort through - that I'm still sorting
through. I even thought writing this story would somehow be therapeutic. I
felt a little nauseated over what I did, sick to my stomach, really. Not
because of the pleasure, or that it was with a guy, I think. But because it
was with /Mark/. And along those lines I also betrayed Michelle, so it made
it a whole lot worse for me.

But, standing there in the shower, feeling minutely soothed by the hot
water, I did the only thing I could think of to do at that time: masturbate
to the lingering feelings and ebbing memories.

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sammy_johnston@yahoo.com