The Journal of Julian Corsair,
An Uncommonly Good Man
Copyright© 2014 – Nicholas Hall
Julian Corsair – Chapter Ten – "Many a soldier's loving arms about the neck have cross'd and rested, many a soldiers kiss dwells on these bearded lips"- (Walt Whitman)
The room was silent, Pauley's soft, yet inflective, voice was no more, and I wrongly assumed he was either contemplating what he'd just read or was about to enjoin me in some discussion when I heard a long, slow sigh slip from his lips, the journal lay slacked in his grip, and he relaxed up against me. Paolo Le Mont was sound asleep, resting the sleep of an innocent babe!
I hesitated in waking him; I enjoyed his closeness, his warmth, and the overall melding of his body to mine as we sat there, so I wrapped my arms about him, holding him securely, but gently, his head on my chest and his back resting in my crotch. He slept soundly for approximately fifteen minutes and, in an effort to become more comfortable in his repose, slid down, twisted, rolled over, and buried his face in my cock-spot! He rooted about for a second or two, realized where his nose was located, and sat upright, half asleep and groggy.
"Let's go to bed," I suggested and led him down the hall to the bedroom. I disrobed and helped him do the same (he was old enough to do it, but I found it more delightful to assist).
"I gotta pee," he declared standing next to the bed, his flaccid, uncut beauty leaning over his nicely shaped balls, so I led the way to the bathroom where we both loosed healthy streams into the porcelain pony. Returning to the bedroom, I crawled under the covers, nude as usual, and invited him to join me.
Pauley hesitated, disclosing, "I've never done anything with a guy before!"
"Not to worry," I responded in an assuring voice as he joined me, "we'll just take it at a slow, measured pace; besides you're tired, so let's just sleep."
He smiled, slid closer, snuggled up against my side, rested his head on my chest, and fell sound asleep! During the night, he draped his right leg over my mid-rift causing his hard prong and balls to make contact with my right hip and thigh, bringing and keeping my own manhood, to an uncomfortable stiffness. Pauley's right arm lay across my chest and his right hand gripped my left shoulder, gestures which suggested he was more than comfortable with me and wanted me not to scurry away.
Morning arrived and, with a sheepish grin on his face, embarrassed at his positing closeness, his hard, yet velvety soft penis poking my side, while his left forearm rested on my own pulsating, twitching stiff throbber, Pauley apologetically said as he rolled off of me, "Sorry about that; hope I didn't crowd you too much."
"If you did, I enjoyed it," I enjoined and reached down to take a more accurate measure of his particular staff of delight. The moment I touched him, the spongy head swelled and he stiffened even more. Pauley looked at me expectantly, curiously as I met his gaze, placed one hand behind his head and brought him closer. Brushing his lips with mine, sweeping across those delightful pink sensors with my tongue, and gliding from there to his cheeks where my mouth and lips migrated to his neck, nuzzling and softly kissing that erogenous zone before traveling over the same path I followed previously and beyond, giving equal stimulation to the other side.
Pauley was squiggling and twisting in an effort to get as close to me as he physically could, his hard cock pressing into my flesh as I tantalized his bare flesh. Finally returning to his lips, I kissed him and he returned it with a longing, a yearning, an eager fervor of one who experienced it not before, but now relished in the excitement! His mouth opened, allowing me entry, and we tasted each other for the first time. Pulling back, listening to him sigh in the beginning of sexual bliss, my kisses commenced a southern journey; my tongue circling and titillating each dime-sized, brown nipple bringing them up as tight and taut as a seaman's knot.
Using my nose as an instrument of pleasure, aided by my tongue and lips, sinking my body lower until I was at eye level with his dark, but not overly abundant public bush, I wriggled my nose in that sparse forest and, pushing his turgid rod aside, I licked around the base of his man-piece, leaned over a bit more allowing my tongue to massage the space between balls and thigh and then back. Pauley was beginning to make soft, whimpering, begging noises so I suckled, in turn, each of his warm, soft baby makers until I reasoned he wouldn't last much longer!
Leaving those delicious abundant orbs to rest, I licked up his shaft, tucked my tongue in and around the foreskin hood still partially covering the helmet-shaped head, slipped a hand around slowly jacking the loose skin of it as I engulfed his brass trumpet, and began playing reveille. As the final note sounded, he erupted, greeting the morning with a loud "OH SHIT," punctuated by several streams of long, thick, creamy notes of his own, and thrust into my warm mouth several times as I continued to siphon his viscous contribution to the song.
The very taste of him would put ambrosia to shame I thought! Such a savory delight for a morning appetizer should be available each and every new day or evening or anytime. Lifting my head, licking my lips, I kissed him again, imparting a taste of himself that still lingered in my mouth. Pauley started to lower his head, but I stopped him,
"You don't have to, you know."
"But, I want to; problem is I've never done it before!"
"Then do as I did to you and repeat on me what you like done to you and all will be well. Cover your teeth with your lips so you don't injure the concert master and the recital will end with a grand crescendo."
Indeed it did! We lay, holding each other, content in our new-found relationship. I think I knew this wasn't going to be just a casual "find `em, feel `em, fuck `em, and forget `em" experience. This was going to evolve into a long-term relationship, I hoped, but it was up to Pauley.
Gathering our strength, I gave him a quick kiss and asked, "Up for a before breakfast swim?"
We cavorted naked in the lake, swimming, laughing, caressing each other, and before leaving the lakeside, sat on the dock and masturbated each other to another climax, spilling our seed into the lake waters, giving the fish something to check out. Cum drifting in cool lake water maintains it's thick, ropey, look as it drifts about. There is something highly erotic about it and brought us to erection again.
Pauley and I were new-found lovers while fixing breakfast, eating breakfast, and afterward during clean-up, unable to keep our hands or lips off of each other. Dishes cleaned up and put away, Pauley announced he should go back home, check the answering machine, pick up his cell phone, and an overnight bag. If there were any pressing problems on the answering machine, he'd take care of them and be back for the night, if I agreed. Of course I agreed!
His absence gave me the opportunity to review my banking situation. I wasn't happy with the way I was treated at the branch bank in Lake View. Fox Creek, about fifteen miles away, is a small town of about eighteen hundred where my mail comes from and the location of Big Timber School District's elementary, middle, and high schools. As a local business center, it didn't have all of the big box stores or the selection that Lakeview has, but it does have a fairly decent business district including grocery store, hardware store, and others to serve the local populace. Additionally, it had a small savings bank and I wanted to quiz Pauley on it. If I was going to be here for a while or longer, I wanted to evaluate the feasibility of setting up an account, if it was a decent bank.
Pauley returned about three in the afternoon and, after putting his overnight bag in the bedroom, joined me on the porch for a cocktail. When I inquired about the bank, he assured me it was a good bank with employees who were people friendly, conservative with loans, but always seemed to pay one percent higher than any other banks on savings accounts and certificates. Fox Creek Savings Bank is where he banked and so did his folks. The school district also kept their accounts there and seemed pleased with the service they received, according to the scuttle-butt around town. I accepted his recommendation and decided to visit the bank one day this week.
With our second drink in hand, we returned to the living room. Pauley picked up the journal, I sat on the floor, my back up against the couch, he assumed his position between my outstretched legs, leaned back, and read!
The summer of 1943 was one of my best and most enlightening summers, in spite of moving here in late winter and the war. War news and jitters were all about and production at the Ordinance Plant was ramped up in order to meet the demands of the conflict. More and more soldiers were seen on the city streets on weekends. After my landing zone healed, Dr. Arnold gave it a test flight a couple of times just to make certain. God, he had a fit cock and was ever so gentle. Having him mount me was nothing like some of those I encountered in the street trade; those who only wanted to fire their rifles and withdraw and those who fired their rifles and then roughed up firing range just a bit.
I went back to work, weekends only because my week days were spent with Dr. Arnold and Miss Harrison. Darnell was offered and accepted a job working on the farm for his girlfriend's father. They had a rather large farm and needed the help, so Darnell happily accepted employment –and the fringe benefits that accompanied the position (horizontal, embedded in his girlfriend, spritzing his delights deep where they met with her equally heavenly showers). This meant I worked alone, cautioned by Dr. Arnold to be most cautious concerning my clientele, carefully avoiding those areas of the downtown where it wasn't wise to be late at night.
The American populace was constantly assured, via newspapers and the radio, the war was going well for us. During the school year, our teachers assisted us in locating new towns or countries we'd never heard of until mentioned in the war news reports and marked them on maps in the classroom. During the summer, I was so fortunate to have Dr. Arnold and Miss Harrison continue my education. Somewhere, somehow, she'd located a big world map and Dr. Arnold tacked it to a piece of plywood on a tripod in his living room and we'd stick pins in it helping me identify and remember countries and cities. I also, with his help, was able to follow the progress of the war, given the limited information released.
When the British firebombed Hamburg, Germany, I marked it on the map; the fierce fighting reported at Stalingrad also received a pin as well as the Gilbert and Marshal Islands in the Pacific. The United States recaptured the Aleutians with the invasion of Attu in the spring. I found all of this very exciting; frightening, but still exciting! I was unaware the news of these events always arrived after the battle was over because in my mind, the conflict was occurring at that very moment! The government usually reported any American casualties as "light" or "unknown at this time."
Weekdays, when not fishing, biking, swimming, or some other activity normally conducted by young lads during war time, were spent with Dr. Arnold or Miss Harrison in the huge garden behind our houses. Dr. Arnold also took opportunity to implant me with seeds of knowledge which I either sucked up or settled them deeply in me rectally, along with assisting Miss Harrison and me in the garden.
Such a garden it was! Our "Victory Garden," as we were informed by government propaganda (a word and communication method I learned via Miss Harrison and not in the most respectful manner, I might add), was the patriotic duty of all true Americans who had access to open ground or space, since production of food for personal use provided our troops with access to food stuffs that would've been otherwise diverted and consumed by the civilian population. As a result, if the weather cooperated, my days were spent tending our garden, regardless of what it was called.
Plowed, disked, and cultivated earlier in the summer by a team of horses owned by a former student of Miss Harrison's, provided me with an afternoon of delightful watching. I'd never seen a team of horses plow a garden before. In fact, I'd never seen a horse- up close that is- before. I wondered why the farmer didn't use a tractor so I asked Miss Harrison.
She explained the farmer's daddy farmed with horses before he passed away and, thus, his son, currently plowing our garden, after taking over their small farm, continued to do so and preferred them. Tractors were hard to get because most production was concentrated on tanks, trucks, and other items for the war, and gasoline was scarce, although farmers had more access to petroleum than other people did. As I watched, I noticed the team didn't seem to struggle as they pulled the plow, breaking over and turning the grassy sod of old garden and soon to be new. Once finished, he rested the horses while Miss Harrison went to the house to get his pay.
I circled the team, examining them carefully (from a distance), and exclaimed, "These critters are surely big and strong. Are they boy or girl horses?"
Actually I already figured out they were males; one's cock had begun to dangle down a considerable distance from its body. The fleshy protuberance hung softly; pink, mottled with dark splotches, round, about eighteen or twenty inches long, making my five inch contribution look dinky indeed, and sort of flat on the end, but there were no balls hanging between the horse's legs. There was no way any male creature didn't have a set of balls somewhere, I thought, really, really looking!
"Geldings," the farmer said, responding to my question. "A gelding is a male horse that has been castrated, you know, had his balls clipped off when it was young."
My own balls suddenly felt more precious than ever before, tightening and quivering at the very disgusting and painful thought of having them removed at whatever age. Unfortunately, my equine education was rather truncated when Miss Harrison returned from the house with his payment.
Later that evening, I asked Dr. Arnold why anyone would want to cut the balls off of any creature, but his explanation did little to relieve my anxiety and concerns. He laughed at my misgivings concerning the decency of doing such a thing, but I don't know if he thought my naivety was amusing or the fact I had his very low hanging duck egg-sized gonads cupped in my hands, gently massaging and wobbling them.
Our "Victory Garden" was planted with a variety of vegetables; tomatoes, green beans, peas, beets, carrots, potatoes, radishes, lettuce, turnips, rutabagas, cucumbers, butternut winter squash, green and "keeper" onions, in addition of a smattering of perennial herbs. Miss Harrison and Dr. Arnold also decided we need a couple of hills each of pie pumpkins, cantaloupes, and watermelons. Along the Miss Harrison's west property line were red and black raspberry bushes and several rhubarb plants. The back of the property contained the fruit trees. Dr. Arnold also had a couple of apple trees and two cherry trees on his property, but along his back lot line were a row of very healthy and productive grape vines, all trussed up on poles and wires. Enough, he claimed, for grape jelly and plenty for wine. We were later to discover the truth in his statements as we produced some fine homemade grape and cherry wine.
Weeding, hoeing, and harvesting the produce was work, but it was good work I felt because it not only fed us, but helped the war effort! Dr. Arnold claimed the physical activity and working with me kept him young. I don't know about that, but I do know, for an older gentleman such as himself, it did keep him hard!
As the green beans and other vegetables ripened, I helped Miss Harrison preserve them, either in jars processed in the pressure canner or hot water bath treatment or by drying them in a homemade food dryer. All, except the dried fruits or vegetables, were placed in the fruit cellar in the basement of our house for use later in the year. The dried produce was kept in the kitchen cupboard in tight containers to keep the moisture from ruining them. Miss Harrison and Dr. Arnold were always willing to share our garden produce with those widows, widowers, or poorer people in town who had little but needed much. I was often instructed by either one to fill the basket on my bicycle with what they felt needed to be delivered to those they designated.
My stash of cash continued to grow during the summer. There were new soldiers around town seeking some sort of entertainment and, if their desires included partaking of some nicely formed and experienced young buttocks, I was more than willing to oblige. Some, in fact more than just a few, enjoyed the experience so much they returned more than once. Nothing like building up a satisfied customer base, I thought.
A young captain, perhaps age thirty-five or forty, I really don't know, would often pick me up downtown in my usual evening hanging-out spot, drive me a short way into the country (if the weather was nice) in his army jeep and we'd dance the fandango out there. He'd spread an olive-drab blanket out on a grassy spot and with only the moonlight and stars to guide him, would slowly, deliberately, and lovingly undress me, nuzzling and kissing all of my boy parts, and finally suck me to a joyful and ball-draining orgasm! Once my load was dumped, he'd roll me over and make love to my pucker with his tongue, lapping all around it and finally, wiggling it inside me, opening me to what was to come.
Smearing some lotion on his cock, parting my cheeks with his warm hands, he would mount me and slowly begin inserting his really large and thicker than average penis into my anal opening, moving gently, easily into that well used orifice until I could feel his cock-bush pushing up against my ass cheeks. He could rock back and forth, in and out, and massage my prostate for over an hour, bringing me to at least one more orgasm just through his efforts until, I would feel him push a far forward as he could (I swear his dick was pressing up against my stomach on the inside then), his dick would swell, and with each pulse, bathe my internal love machine with what felt like quarts of semen. I really don't think it'd be that much, but he'd lay on me, after climaxing, and his juice would leak out around his stiff cock and drip down on my balls.
The captain said one time, as we lay there recovering, he'd really miss me if he ever got transferred. I'd miss him to, since he paid well, always leaving more than I charged, and I'd gotten quite attached to him; love, I think the word might be. I wanted to imagine spending my life with him but I knew that could never be – the war and all, you know. One evening, after a particularly delightful encounter, I enquired what he did with the army and all he'd say was "Don't even ask me that question, Julian. What I do cannot be talked about" and said no more. At the end of August, just before school started, he informed me he'd be gone the next day and slipped me a one hundred dollar bill. That was a lot of money! I squirreled it away with the rest of my cash, but it did little to erase or comfort me in my loss of him.
I particularly enjoyed introducing the young, shy, first-timers to the joy of boy-sex or at least, sex with a person of the same sex. It didn't take much to prime their pump and if they paid for a fuck, it never lasted long once I began to massage their hard prick with my ass muscles. They'd squeal and moan, shoving in as deep as they could and unload! Some would almost pass out from the experience they were so sexually drained; it was grand fun and profitable too! There were those times when two or three would get together (there seems to be bravery in numbers) and once the first soldier buried his gun and shot his load, the others would almost tear their clothes off waiting for their turn in my shooting range.
One night, in one of the darker city parks, bent over, my pants down around my ankles and a very exhausted, but sexually fulfilled young soldier bent across my back as he slowed in his abundant deluge of my interior, I heard him squeal, "Oh, shit; M.P.'s"), pull out, almost taking my asshole with him, and run away. I quickly pulled up my britches, looked around, and faced two young military policemen about ten yards away.
Before I could move away, they closed the distance and held up their nightsticks, signaling me to stand my ground and not move. One tapped me on the shoulder with his nightstick and asked, "What might you be doing out so late, young man?"
"Picking up night crawlers so I can go fishing in the morning?"
The other fellow, evidently not accepting my answer as correct, swatted me gently on the ass his with nightstick, nodded his head and responded, "Yeah, right; so why were your pants down around your ankles and your sweet, little bare ass poked up in the night breeze?"
"I forgot a can and didn't have anything else to put them in."
With that I smiled and walked away!
To be continued:
Thank you for reading Julian Corsair- Chapter - Ten–"Many a soldier's loving arms about the neck have cross'd and rested, many a soldiers kiss dwells on these bearded lips"- (Walt Whitman)
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