Respite From The Dust
by Greg Scott
All the usual stuff about you must be old enough in your jurisdiction, etc. In other words, if you are underage, don't read this unless you have a really cool teacher who assigned it. Otherwise, come back in a few years, when nobody will yell at you.
For my regular readers, I want to point out that this story is not part of The Lavender Line series.
The dust sticks everywhere on your body, working its way through clothes and Kevlar and anything that might seem to offer resistance. When it's windy, as it is too often, it stings your face. The body's sweat turns it into gritty mud that somehow hardens into a personal coating of concrete.
Once you've been here long enough, you don't even notice it until you finally have a chance to shower. You need to let the water work its magic for a while, watching the brown rivulets pooling at your feet. If you start to scrub too soon, before the water has softened the layers, the suds feel like sandpaper. Everything in this place demands patience.
If you have another eight months to go, though, you can afford the patience. No point in rushing anything; the clock runs at its own pace. Slowly. As if the heat convinces even the minute hand to take it easy, pace itself. Everything runs on its own schedule, which is to say no schedule at all.
I remember that I have always had a high sex drive, a demanding libido. I say this as if this was the case years ago rather than mere months. My body demanded frequent attention from either my new bride or, before her, any woman with whom I could drink until she achieved satisfactory allure. Between times my hand served as a frequent substitute. And in college, a willing male roommate could do wonders during those dry spells that inevitably occur.
Not here though. Here I thought only of cool nights. I remembered the taste but mostly the texture of cotton candy. I thought of my mother's mashed potatoes. I recalled yelling myself hoarse at a college football game, seated on the bench as usual. I almost never thought of sex. Not here.
Yet sex was the constant topic of conversation all around me. I think that I even participated, although not thoughtfully. It was just automatic, like the way you might say, "Hi" whenever somebody passes you on the sidewalk and says, "How's it going?" You don't think about it; the other person doesn't think about it; you both just do it. Sex talk here is just like that. It's like it's a common courtesy, a social convention.
This day was different. This day I felt horny, and it was almost like welcoming an old friend.
Don't ask me why. I'm not sure. I suppose it was a combination of things. I had just had a thorough shower with adequate water. The temperature of the usually oppressive air was cooler. The ceaseless, unmerciful sun was hidden by gray clouds. There was a light rain, the kind that never seems to happen here. Not a downpour; just a light rain. In my Toyota at home, I would have the wipers set at about the second notch. Why did I think of that?
Of course, it might not be any of those things. It might be something completely different that led to the return of sexual interest. It might be the recent arrival of a guy fresh out of R.O.T.C., like I was on my first tour, two years ago. Rodriguez. I had sort of taken him under my wing. Shown him around and tried to help him figure out how to give orders to guys twice his age with a hundred times more experience.
Don't get me wrong here. Male soldiers don't do much to stimulate my libido. Let me modify that just a little. Most male soldiers don't stimulate my libido. One more try: No male soldier before Rodriguez ever made me think in those terms.
Here's the problem with Rodriguez: He reminds me too much of my roommate, the one I described a while ago as "willing male." Same skin tone. Same sense of humor, although when Rodriguez is funny he does it with a deep Texas drawl. My roomie, Alex had that instantly recognizable Boston accent. Pretty much same size. Similar faces that would make any woman drippy, and deep brown eyes. Sometimes just being with Rodriguez makes me remember Alex's magical mouth working my member as a college sophomore, tucked away in the secrecy of our dorm room,
My new friend's arrival has had the odd effect of making me think and even dream of sex. In these odd surroundings the previously familiar urges return, but they seem out of place, out of context, out of the realm of possibility. My wife is thousands of miles away, but my hand is with me.
Privacy is the military's most valued commodity because it is in such short supply. It is the gold ring of a soldier's desire, precious and always just out of reach.
This day, though, I felt as a patient prospector must have felt after months of panning at the stream only to find pebbles when first spotting that golden glint among the debris. This day I had finally located a place where I could have that moment of privacy to rediscover my body and the pleasure that it could offer, even if it would be without the company of my wife or of any other being to add to my inevitable pleasure.
I had found a collection of humvees along with some dusty jeeps, clustered together as if they were trying to find warmth from one another. In fact they were awaiting repairs--a fuel pump here, a new door there, a set of tires, or in the Army's way, maybe they were just awaiting official, thorough destruction that is militarily cheaper than reconditioning. Whatever their fate, they provided a screen from peering eyes for a small area of open ground in their midst. The absolute solitude beckoned me like the siren's call.
While my spot (notice that I have assumed a sort of personal ownership of that tiny piece of dirt) was private, the entrance to the maze that leads to it was definitely not. The almost invisible path to my Brigadoon was unfortunately along a virtual pedestrian expressway--a dusty walkway to practically everywhere that soldiers might go at any hour. In one direction it led to the mess hall and the building that housed the showers that sometimes had sufficient water pressure. In the other direction, soldiers could find the latrines. Along the way were tributaries that fed the main pathway from row after row of partly canvas buildings that served as home to my men and Rodriguez's men and the men of all the other officers in the battalion.
I had no cover story for lingering around all of the vehicles. This was not a used car lot where one might window shop. It was little more than a junk pile, really. So my mission required stealth and timing. Mostly, it required luck.
I stood near the entrance path, pretending to be luxuriating in the rare, soft, cool rain. Each time I thought the path to be clear, another soldier would turn a corner into view. Some I knew. Some were strangers to me.
At last, the pathway was empty, and I made my move. I stepped briskly toward my goal. Just as I turned quickly into the opening at the jumble of vehicles, a soldier rounded a corner. It was Rodriguez. I didn't know if he had even seen me, and I doubted that he could have recognized me even if he had spotted the rapid movement.
To be more certain that I had been successful in my stealth, I paused at the first protected spot, squatting and listening intently. I waited to hear if anyone called my name. I listened for the sounds of boots on gravel and mud. I strained to hear any human sound, but I heard nothing but some muffled jeering of men some safe distance away.
I moved among the humvees, turning sideways at one point so that I could squeeze between one and a rather sad looking jeep. Eventually, I reached my spot.
As a teen, as recently as seven years ago, jacking off was a spur of the moment decision. The urge would strike, I would reach under the covers on my bed and do it. The water from the morning shower would stimulate, and I would begin to work the lather around my balls. I would decide that I needed a study break while sitting at my computer, I'd just release my equipment from the confines of my jeans and briefs.
This circumstance, though, had required planning and careful execution. I was determined to put all that effort to good use. This would become a ritual!
I sat on the ground, still hard even after a couple hours of the rain. I removed my boots and socks, and I stowed them away under the closest vehicle to keep them dry.
I spread my shirt on the ground to serve as protection for my unusually clean body. I did the same with my pants, tossing my underwear to the side. While my careful arrangement did nothing to cushion my prone body, it did at least keep the dirt off me.
The ritualistic undressing, almost a striptease without an audience, had already gotten my hormones flowing. My cock was about half hard when I first touched it. Two or three slow strokes had it fully inflated.
The movements of my hand felt familiar, of course, but the gentle rain produced unique sensations on my bare chest, legs and scrotum. It tickled lightly like an unseen lover. I closed my eyes tightly to protect them from the water as much as to allow me to focus upon my fantasy life experienced by touch alone.
I ran my left hand across my chest while trying to remember the curves of my wife's body. For some reason, though, and perhaps it was because I was touching my own very male body, I thought of Alex and I touching each other during the second semester of our sophomore year of college.
For a moment, I fought the image and tried again to conjure my wife's lovely body. Then I decided that I had earned pleasure wherever my mind took me. If my memories were to be of Alex in this testosterone filled environment, so be it.
I remembered the first time Alex had touched my cock and given it a tentative stroke. He looked frightened but eager. I was surprised but intrigued.
I continued to stroke myself on that hard, satisfyingly cool ground. While my right hand continued its slow up and down movement, my left moved from my chest to my balls, playing with the sparse wiry hairs before applying downward pressure to the sac. I felt a bit of welcome pain. Just a little. Just enough to remind me of my sensuality.
I realized with a start that I was no longer thinking of Alex or my wife. I now recalled watching a shirtless Rodriguez playing volleyball with some of his men. Watching him then was the first time I had consciously noticed how very much my new friend looked like Alex.
I began to mix genuine memories of Alex with images of Rodriguez, so that it was Rodriguez not Alex who stroked my chest while I played with his balls. It was Rodriguez not Alex who lowered his mouth to my anxiously waiting cock.
My reverie was broken. I thought that I heard something. Something subtle. I listened, pausing in my movement of self-pleasure. I was frozen in time. But I could not hear the sound that had broken my concentration. Eyes still closed, I resumed my self exploration, hand moving a bit more urgently.
There it was again. Definitely a boot on the grimy dirt. And nearby. Too close, in fact.
I knew that I had choices to make. I was laying on most of my clothes, so quickly covering myself, probably my first instinct, was out of the question. I could open my eyes and stare down the intruder, but somehow I thought clearly enough to realize that such a gesture would only serve to embarrass us both. I could speak softly but firmly, telling the person to give me some privacy.
For some reason, as I considered these options, probably taking far less time than it seemed, I continued to stroke, rhythmically. I decided to do nothing, assuming that the person would certainly disappear the same way that he or she had come once it was clear that I just wanted a moment of privacy to take care of some personal needs.
While my movements continued unabated, my fantasy life had been disturbed. When I didn't hear footsteps backtracking, I found myself trying to guess the identity of the person who now must be watching me as I lay fully exposed. Of course, retracing my own history over the last several minutes, the most logical person was Rodriguez. He must have seen me entering the maze. His curiosity must have gotten the best of him, wondering what allure broken down vehicles had for me.
Yet, if that was the case, why would he linger after he obviously had his answer? Why would anyone linger?
Oddly, I found my level of excitement building. What had started as something near panic at having been discovered doing this most private of activities, now became a moment of surprisingly stimulating exhibitionist behavior, something that I didn't know about myself. My private session had turned into a performance, and I found myself drawn to the spotlight.
The purpose of my movements now changed. In addition to finding pleasure for myself, I wanted to provide titillation for my voyeur. I now grabbed a nipple and twisted it, and I allowed my face to display an exaggerated wince of painful joy. Again, I moved a hand to my balls, but this time I tugged them with what I hoped was very obvious force.
I heard the footsteps again. I was surprised that I first felt disappointment that my peeper was leaving. However, I could then discern that he was instead drawing nearer. Apparently, I captivated my audience.
I was determined that my work on this stage should be my best effort. Every play has its own climax, and I willed my own to be as dramatic as any Hollywood movie or Shakespeare play. I hoped that within the pants of my onlooker, my climax would merit a sort of standing ovation.
I heard the rustle of movement very close to me now. Then, in less time than it takes to realize what might happen, it did. A mouth moved my stroking hand aside and engulfed my cock fully.
I did not know whose mouth, and I did not care. Indeed, I didn't want to know whose mouth, because if I knew then I was bound by my oath to report it. However, as long as I didn't absolutely know, then it was as if none of this ever happened. "Don't ask, don't tell" became "Don't know, can't tell."
The pleasure was intense, like none I had experienced. I deduced that it must belong to a man, because only a man could know that the particular set of actions could bring such excruciating pleasure. I decided that this much, at least, I had to know. I brought my hand up to caress the face and felt the stubble that confirmed my suspicion.
As his mouth worked its magic, his hands began to explore other parts of my body. His actions seemed to indicate that he liked the feel of my hairy legs. He brushed them lightly, hovering just across the hair itself before moving gently across the skin, which grew more sensitive of course as he neared my inner thigh.
As a counterpoint to the tenderness he gave my legs, his other hand was nothing short of brutal as he pinched one nipple and then another, alternating between the two and applying more force with each move. The contrasts were exquisite. Soothing my legs, ravaging my chest and demanding my cock to fulfill his hungry lust.
During one downward thrust onto my dick, as I felt my cock tip enter his throat, I realized that my welcome sucker had a well trimmed mustache. Rodriguez's face flashed in my mind, as I recalled his warm grin that he would toss my way every once in a while as a master rewards his dog with a treat. His mustache was always as neatly kept as the rest of him, even amid the filth of this place.
While I was determined not to know the identity of my secret lover, I was equally determined to imagine it to be my strikingly handsome friend. My wife's image was not even in the competition any longer. Rodriguez consumed me--if not in reality, at least in my mind.
I pictured him with my cock sliding in and out of his ample lips. I saw his light brown hands rubbing my body. I began to imagine that I was returning the favor. That my own lips were wrapped around his uncut dick that I had seen often although never in an aroused state. But in my mind it was fully aroused, erect, long, and plump with the crown visible beyond the foreskin.
That imaginary image was enough to bring me where I had set my sights throughout this day. I felt my juices churning deep within me, and I followed the path through my body and up my shaft until they burst like a fireworks shell into the mouth that I hoped, and for that moment believed, belonged to my friend.
Volley after volley I fired into his mouth. I felt him swallow without releasing me as I shot even more into his soft warm throat.
And then it stopped, as it always does with a final trickle or two. I was so lost in my exhaustion that I was unaware that my officially anonymous lover had released my cock until those same lips reached my own.
The kiss was tender, without too much pressure. I willingly parted my lips at his tongue's request to accept his gift of my own seed. I wrapped my arms around his body and pressed a hand against the back of his head. It was the best kiss of my life.
I listened as the footsteps grew more and more distant. When I could no longer hear him, I opened my eyes for the first time.
I began to dress, but my underwear was nowhere around, so I knew that my afternoon partner had taken a souvenir. If I wanted confirmation for my suspicion I could simply take an opportunity to snoop through the things belonging to Rodriguez, but I knew that I would never do that.
The rain had stopped. The unmerciful sun had returned. And a building wind was blowing the dust around again.
Back to normal, I guess. Or at least what passes for normal around here.
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