Date: Mon, 18 Jul 2005 22:32:28 -0700
From: Curt Young <otismus@comcast.net>
Subject: Plantation Road - Chapter 1

Plantation Road

by Nick Stark

nickstarkusmc@hotmail.com

Chapter 1

As the Marine Captain twisted his upper body to help the recruit on with
his heavy pack, the material of his skintight olive green tank top
stretched tight across his chest.  Even with them smeared with Vaseline
and covered with band aids, his nipples still hurt like hell from the
abuse they'd taken last night.  As soon as the last of the recruits were
geared up and on their way, he could strip to the waist and see if
wearing no shirt for a while helped them heal.  He would have a few hours
to himself between sending the young jarheads on their way, and meeting
up with them at the rendezvous.

"Thanks, Sir" said Davison, the young hunk that the Captain had been
helping on with his pack.  Davison turned to face his tough Captain,
nodding and acknowledging that he was ready to move out.  "At ease
Davison, til the others are geared up and ready."  "Yessir" was the
quick reply.  Captain Stark turned his attention to the next man,
assembling his gear rather clumsily.  Davison's eyes stayed on Captain
Stark as he knelt down to help Kowalski, the overweight polack who was
the joke of the unit.  Stark was everything Davison wanted to be.  Big,
muscular, confident, take-no-shit attitude, tough but fair.  Davison had
joined the Corps to turn himself into what Stark was.  He was from Ames,
Iowa, and despite the heat and humidity of southern Louisiana, he loved
every minute of what he was learning and doing down here.  He slept
soundly, awoke refreshed at reveille, soaked up what he was being taught,
reveled in the tough building of his body.  He had already firmed up his
gut and packed on muscle across his chest and shoulders.  Captain Stark
had even taken to acting as a trainer to Davison in the base gym.  Stark
wore old ripped up tee shirts to lift in, and Davison often caught
glimpses of his big hairy muscled pecs, which inspired him to push
himself harder.  Davison rested his weight, now considerably heavier from
the pack strapped to his shoulders, on one leg, and waited patiently.

Stark was helping Kowalski sort out his kit.  Something Kowalski should
have easily been able to do on his own, as the others had.  Davison
looked up and locked eyes with DeRossi, both of whom gave a smirk that
said `good thing we have our shit together'.  DeRossi was ready for
Stark's inspection, knowing full well it would be cursory, as was
Davison's.  Stark would do little more than poke around in his pack,
nod, and help heft the heavy load to DeRossi's strong back.  DeRossi was
from Brooklyn, a tough inner city Italian, who joined the Corps to escape
the confining feeling he got in the big city, and to use his street honed
body and fighting skills for a paycheck and a future.  DeRossi could have
been Stark's brother; both had jet black hair, thick 5 o'clock shadow,
bodies that easily bulked up, chests and hard stomachs covered in thick
dark hair.  DeRossi was maybe a bit leaner than Stark, and an inch
shorter.

Finally Kowalski was ready.  He stumbled as Stark helped him secure the
pack straps over his shoulders.  The fabric of his camouflage shirt
stretched across his gut.  What little extra weight Davison and DeRossi
had had when boot camp started had long since melted away.  Not so with
Kowalksi.  His short and squat body would never have the lean grace and
beauty of a fit man.  The rumor was that he was some Congressman's
nephew or something, else he would long since have been rooted out.

Stark moved on to DeRossi, and finished with him in quickly.  After the
pack was on his back, DeRossi turned to nod his acknowledgement to
Stark.  The two men locked eyes, Stark's expression not betraying
anything.  All the men knew that the unit was top notch except for
Kowalski, why dwell on it.  Stark certainly wouldn't acknowledge it.
Everyone had heard the stories about the covert operations that Stark had
successfully completed over the years.  He knew his shit and led with
conviction; the combination made him a top notch trainer of the young
recruits.

Stark turned at last to the final member of his four man team.  Quinn was
your typical blond from California, 5'11" lean and tan, naturally broad
shoulders, pretty blue eyes.  He was young and naïve compared to Davison
and DeRossi, but he definitely had his shit together.  Quinn always had
an open look on his face, as if he were waiting for orders.  That made
him a good marine.  It had also, over the course of basic training,
turned him into Captain Stark's boy.  Noone had a clue, but Stark was
deep drilling Quinn every night; and each morning Quinn snuck into
Stark's office to blow his superior officer.  Quinn got up early,
showered, shaved, put on his uniform, then used his key to let himself
into Stark's quarters.  Most mornings Stark was already up, sitting in
his skivvies at his desk doing paperwork before showering.  Without a
word Quinn would come around the side of the Captain's desk and sink to
his knees.  Stark would scoot his chair back to give the Private some
space, then he would lay back comfortably while Quinn pulled the elastic
of Stark's briefs down below his cock and balls.  As Quinn's head
bobbed up and down on the Captain's hardon, Stark would alternate
between gripping and rubbing Quinn's head, working his own thick tits,
and raising his arms to smell his pits.  Usually after about 8 or 10
minutes of constant servicing, Stark would tense up, push down hard on
his firm belly, and blow his pent up load down Quinn's throat.  Quinn's
neck would convulse as he struggled to take all of Captain Stark's
load.  He knew he had to swallow it all, that was the rule.  After he
lapped the last drips of semen off Stark's cockhead, he replaced his
Captain's equipment in his briefs, then stood at ease to await orders,
hands behind his back.  His own cock would always be hard, but strapped
down in the jockstrap that Stark required him to wear.  Usually Stark
would tell him when he was to report in that night, then turn his
attention back to his paperwork with a quick nod and a "Dismissed."
Quinn would mumble "Yessir" quietly and exit the room, his emotions a
tumble of confusion.  He wanted release desperately even though he knew
that wasn't allowed, but more than that he wanted some recognition, some
affection from the big Captain, some glimmer that all this meant
something to the man that Quinn worshipped, that he wasn't just a
convenient piece of ass to fuck.  Quinn's mind always envisioned a young
guy in each class of recruits that Stark used in the same sexual manner,
to be sent packing upon graduation.  Some mornings Quinn even cried, but
he knew he would show up as ordered that night, strip down to his
jockstrap, and bite the pillow for the Captain to mount him.  For some
reason Stark had taken full control of his body and he had no will, and
if he admitted it to himself no desire, to be anywhere else but by this
man's side.  Several weeks before, Stark had given Quinn one glimmer of
hope, and that was enough to keep the boy coming back.  Quinn was face
down on the bed, clad only in his jockstrap as ordered.  After Stark had
used his knee to kick Quinn's legs wide, and used his strong hands to
part Quinn's hard asscheeks, he had as usual sunk in deep and slow.
After a few minutes of thrusting in and out, as usual Quinn had already
shot his load into the pouch of his jockstrap.  But then as Stark was
getting close, he sunk all the way in, laid down full on top of Quinn,
his chest hair rough on Quinn's smooth back, and as he approached climax
he gripped Quinn's shoulders in his strong hands and planted a long wet
rough kiss on Quinn's neck, the Captain's chin like sandpaper but Quinn
loving the feel of it.  The kiss brought Quinn's emotions and need to
the surface; he gasped and whimpered slightly.  After that, the Captain
dismounted and wiped off his cock as usual, not revealing anything else
about his feelings for Quinn.  He knew Quinn wanted more, but he wasn't
done molding him yet.  If Quinn could withstand what was yet to come, he
knew he would be the marine, the boy, and the lover that Stark desired.

Captain Stark was squatting down, rifling through Quinn's pack.  The
other three marines stood ready to move out.  Quinn looked down at the
thick thighs, broad shoulders, huge arms, and thick glossy dark hair of
the man he was falling in love with.  Stark was all man; who would guess
he liked taking men to bed instead of women?  Quinn tried hard to be
distracted as he watched the Captain's handsome face as he surveyed the
contents of Quinn's pack.  Finding everything in order, Stark stood up,
grasping the heavy pack in one hand, keeping his legs apart for balance.
"Turn around," he said, and Quinn complied.  Stark slid the pack onto
Quinn's back, and the blond shrugged it into position easily.  Not as
heavily muscled as DeRossi, he was definitely stronger than he looked.
He was basically a blond copy of Davison.

Stark stood back a pace or two and called the men in close, while he
pulled a map from his pocket.  "OK men, here's the drill.  I'm sure
you're wondering what the hell you're doing out here at crack of dawn
in heavy packs."  The levee of the Mississippi River was to their left,
and lush green fields to their right.  In the distance upriver were the
huge tanks of a petrochemical facility.  About fifty yards up the road
was a sign indicating the access road to one of the antebellum
plantations that were huge draws for tourists in the spring and fall.  It
was a strange dichotomy that the genteel plantations of the 19th century
now rubbed shoulders with the unsightly machinery of the oilfields.  Over
a dozen of the old plantation houses were open to the public, long since
turned into museums, the land sold off and farmed by huge conglomerates.
Only two of the plantations were still owned by their original builders,
the families holding onto them through the centuries.  One of these was
still farmed, with the farm income supplemented by house tours in the
pleasant months.  The land on the other plantation was known to lie
fallow, with the front gates locked tight.  Noone knew what went on
inside, or the source of the owner's income.  Rumor had it that the
family had been in the slave trade before the Civil War, and that the
money, long banked in New Orleans, still generated enough profit to keep
the house maintained and pay the taxes.

Stark spread out the map on the hood of the jeep.  "I'm dividing you
into two teams.  It'll be DeRossi with Kowalski, and Davison with
Quinn."  Stark caught the quick look of irritation on DeRossi's face.
"Both teams will start out from here and head this way," Stark
indicated on the map.  "The rendezvous point is 10 miles upriver, right
here," Stark continued.  As the 5 men huddled around the map, the image
of their broad backs, muscled asses and booted feet was being viewed
through a set of binoculars.

...to be continued