Date: Thu, 7 Aug 2014 07:25:23 +0200 From: Dampies Dampis Subject: WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING 3 Please donate to Nifty. They do the work of keeping us spurting for free but they can sue some financial help! http://www.nifty.org/nifty/support.html ________________________ It was Saturday, and we had only a short therapy session scheduled for the morning, and I WAS STONED. The week up to then had gone tolerably well, as my new resolve to endure the my therapist, the Lt.'s homophobia, and prove that I was a man, had stiffened my spine and given me the strength and grit to clench my jaw, steel my eyes, and buck up. My therapist, Lt. Dolf the Hunky, of the Impressive Lump in his sexy, skintight, perfectly ironed uniform, had maintained his professional attitude, and I had mercifully not aroused (giggle) his ire by crying like a girl again. My new-found military stoicism had also enabled me to (mostly) ignore his smell, or at least control my response to it. It wasn't cologne or anything, it didn't precede him like the pink flag of a pseudo-masculine, chap-encased, perfectly manicured gay 80's parody of natural manhood. But because we worked so closely and his hands had to often be on my body, I was constantly subjected to a clean, manly smell that infected the air with a dose of lethally intoxicating pheromones that targeted first my heart, and then my crotch. When his imposing presence strode into the therapy room, and his eyes impaled me like a fly pinned on a specimen board, my heart made a bollemakiesie (somersault) and I had to control my breathing as well as where my eyes ranged, seemingly of their own accord. He made the Ken doll look like the joke it was. The broad expanse of his chest flared up from his impossibly narrow hips, to a broad V that was punctuated on either side by the insignia of rank on his shoulders. In between, the expanse of his chest swept from side to side in a brush stroke of military perfection, barely contained in the illusion of order by his shiny buttons and square, symmetrical pockets. The topping of the wine red beret above the line of the dark eyebrows that framed his startling hazel eyes, was like an exclamation mark at the end of a sentence that hinted at forbidden delights, packaged as the epitome of military control. At the back, his ass made the fabric of his pants, and my self-control, groan. It similarly flared gracefully from the impossibly narrow hips encircled by the horizontal hoop of his belt, to curve succulently out and down in a tension-filled bow of delight, to meet, on either side, the pillar-like strength of his legs. Between the latter, the crease where his legs met his ass was a promised land, a forbidden garden of virile secrecy guarded by the lions of his glutes. But the best was the smell. As he leaned towards me to engage with me in therapy, I silently inhaled the advert of his potency, the flag of his virility, and quietly willed my boner to remain under control by picturing his utter disdain and disgust at my queerness. Well, I did say I was stoned. Back to the Saturday in question. The guys in the ward had started acting a bit less aggressively towards me. They joked with me now, even jiggling a dick or ass at me occasionally in jest, and I was not feeling as miserable as before. And Ja, you did hear right. One of them, Kobus, had managed to smuggle some special cookies in, and he had shared. Use of Marijuana was quite common and it managed to take the edge off our boredom and despair. We were giggling our asses off and joking around when the Lt. walked in to collect me for our "short" session. He took one look at what was going on before we all realized he was there and a corporal near the door alerted us with a call to attention. Wherever we were, we came to our version of attention and he sauntered into the room. His eyes were glittering above his sneering mouth and flared nostrils. He stopped in front of Kobus' bed and the latter froze in mid-giggle. "Corporal," he murmured, immobilizing Kobus with his pointed stare. "Report." The command was conversational and only previous (sober) experience in the SADF could have alerted anybody that there was some shit about to go down. But Kobus was as stoned as the rest of us and didn't pick up on the danger signs. Corporal Kobus made an effort to "report" but only succeeded in delivering a garbled string of "ums" and "uhs" intermingled with some stifled chuckles and giggles and snorts. When he finally gave up, Lt. Vosloo stood silently in front of him and looked speculatively at the seated man, and eventually said: "I see." There was little he could do to us physically because we were not able-bodied, so I knew something more sinister was in the offing. Lucky I was too goofed to care, and as the Lt. ushered me off for our physio session I was quite oblivious to the sword of damocles that teetered over my head. I was grateful for the fact that I was stoned, because what ensued was a session of physical punishment and endurance that worked my ass off in strength and flexibility. Have you ever tried to do push-ups with a man holding your legs in the air and you have an erection in your sweats? Have you done 100 crunches while hanging by your knees 6ft in the air, trapeze style? Have you survived sixty minutes of bone crunching and tendon tearing stretches, while a slab of muscle with arms plants his foot just shy of your (engorged) crotch, with his left hand on your knee and and his right forcing your hamstring to snapping point. I farted and groaned and sweated and whined and came one ball hair short of outright passing out. But I was in heaven. Because I was stoned I put up with it all, just enjoying the feeling of my military torturer's strong manly hands all over my aroused 5ft 7, muscular, gay body. When I thought he was done, he used me as a wheelbarrow up and down the gym, and I realized that in my dope-enduced daze I had forgotten to put on a jocks strap, so the Lt. had a great and unimpeded view of my balls jiggling in front of his crotch and my obscenely erect cock pushing up the front of my shorts. By the time I was done I was sweating big time, and my heart was thumping in my chest. If you thought that not having feet meant you couldn't get exercise, think again, as Lt. Hunky Vosloo of the Plump Basket could prove you wrong. "So it looks like the troep is a happy boy today," he said, nodding at my still plump dick. "Wagging your tail because the rank is touching your puny, maimed body." He was sitting opposite me and had my left leg in his hands, thoughtfully examining my still rosy stump and fingering the sensitive edges with his warm thumb, all the while working aromatic medical lubricant around the tip as he massaged the healing scar. He scooted closer on his chair, the legs making a crass scraping noise on the tiled floor, and before I knew what was happening he had gripped my vulnerable ball-sack in his right fist and squeezed hard. I saw stars, since he wasn't fondling, but rather had the intention to hurt. A literally nut-numbing ache radiated upwards and outwards from my gonads. His voice was cruel, soft and harsh, and he continued to squeeze my testicles in a vice-like grip. His face was right up against mine and I was impaled by his hazel, hate-filled eyes. I could taste his clean manly breath on my lips as he spoke, and my already meager breath evaporated as my heart thumped in my chest at his devastating proximity. "You shouldn't get your hopes up little girl-boy, if a real man like me was interested in men I wouldn't choose a legless poofter like yourself. If that is what I wanted I would stick with real girls, one who had the ability to take a real man-dick in a real cunt, and could carry babies for me. So give it up, you damaged queer reject, it will never happen!" For good measure he moved his hand upwards on my now rock hard and drooling cock and speculatively explored my not unrespectable 7 inches with his fingers. He shook his head and tutted. Then he abruptly released my dick and balls and rapped cock sharply, sending a blinding, mind-numbing pain up my core and body. And to my dismay I shot my load in my shorts! While I was still in the spasms of my pain-induced ejaculating and orgasme, he stood up and looked down on me and the embarrassing dark mark of cum that stained my gym shorts. "Fokken pateties...!" (fucking pathetic) he murmured, again shook his head, and stood, making as if to leave. At the door he paused with out turning to face me. "Tomorrow afternoon after lunch, report to my room. I have some laundry that needs to be done. Be there at two, and don't be late. And now get back to your fucking barracks, queer. You and your fucking stoned buddies have an inspection in an hour. And Jesus help you if I'm not happy. I can make even a bunch of army reject cripples wish they were never born!" With that he disappeared down the passage. Stoned or not, I sighed and succumbed to the mixture of horniness and fear that flooded my body. ____________________ PLEASE TALK TO ME... Your encouragement is very.... well, encouraging!