One -- Ablutions
CONTENT CAUTION: This story contains explicit descriptions of sexual acts between consenting male adults. If this sort of thing is illegal where you live, or you are under the age of majority (18, 21 depending on the jurisdiction) stop reading now.
COPYRIGHT: The author asserts his moral right under appropriate copyright laws.
This is a true story.
Names and identities have been changed to protect those involved.
I joined the Army in 2002, not long after the British Government was forced by the European Union to accept "gays in the military". Basic training was a twelve week course at an "Army Training Regiment" in the south of England and it was possible the most intense and rewarding experience of my life up to that point. It would be churlish to suggest that the best bit about being there was the presence of twenty-odd other guys, all aged between 16 and 25, all extremely fit and of varying degrees of cuteness, and moreover the many opportunities I had to see them naked. But there was more to it than that; despite the 0500 starts and 2300 finishes, despite the assholes who were training us to be soldiers, despite the stupid rules and inspections, there was something altogether awesome about being turned from wet, wimpy kids into a body of disciplined, well trained fighting men. The training of the British Army was and remains the best in the world, nulli secundus.
I made no secret of my sexuality when I joined the Army (I still remember the recruiting sergeant's desperate determination not to even mention the subject) and I didn't prevaricate when asked about girlfriends by the guys in the first platoon I joined up with. This platoon was mixed gender, all of us entering the same regiment upon completion of Phase I, or in this case, the same Corps ("Manui dat cognito vires, for those of you in the know), and was full of fairly well educated liberal sorts who had no problem with a gay guy in their midst. I wasn't the first openly gay man (or boy, I was only 21 at the time) on that camp since the emancipation of homosexuals in the British Military, and so even the training staff were fairly open-minded about my presence, though jokes at my expense were perhaps inevitable.
At 21 of course one fantasises obsessively about sex, and there were some very cute guys in the platoon who I had plenty of fantasies about. It was no easy thing having such desires during Basic Training either, whether they were about girls or boys. Fraternisation -- that is, association with anyone else that went beyond polite conversation -- was supposedly forbidden; even an innocent enough touch between recruits could warrant a Show Parade, or worse, a beasting by the RP boys from the guardroom; being caught in fragrante was almost certainly a one-way trip to Stores to hand in your kit and a MOD rail-card home. Amusing but pointed anecdotes recited by the training staff left us in no doubt that the rules on "fratting" were not merely toothless policy, they were adhered to. It went on, of course, but getting caught was fatal. Thus, with no permitted release for us teenagers and young men with raging hormones and raging hardons, a minute-wank in the toilets or the shower was the best you were likely to get. And that in itself was a risky business. Some recruits thought it funny to bust open toilet doors or tear aside shower curtains to embarrass the habitual masturbator, and no one liked to be the butt of those sorts of jokes. Thus, even personal pleasure had to be undertaken discreetly: doing it in those tiny, shoulder-width beds was a complete no-no, since even the slightest movement made them squeak. The best option was late at night, just before the duty Corporal came round to make sure everyone was in bed and the lights were out.
The reality was, therefore, that twenty odd male recruits in the platoon had plenty to fantasise about and very few opportunities to vent the resulting passions. It would be dramatic to suggest that at times you could cut the sexual tension with a knife, but it was certainly the case that it wasn't hard to spy bulging packages at all times of the day and night. I swear I almost blew a hole in the wall of the shower when I finally picked up the courage to knock one out.
Two weeks into basic I picked up the flu. Apparently, intense physical training really lowers your immune response, and this bitch of a virus hit me hard. A day before we were due to go out on our first field-craft exercise (an integral part of the syllabus) I was sent to the medical centre on base, where they decided by temperature was dangerously high and that I wasn't fit to march ten feet let alone ten miles. They kept me in for about three days before finally letting me out on "Light Duties". Because I'd missed the exercise, I was back-squadded out of my platoon. Back-squadded is a nasty euphemism for "Tough shit mate, you've just added an extra two weeks to this twelve week ordeal." I had to pack up all my kit and move to a new block and a new platoon, and this time it wasn't to a nice friendly non-teeth-arm platoon like the one I had been in. No, I wound up in a Troop of recruits all headed for the Royal Armoured Corps. Now, I don't want to seem conceited, but generally speaking your average Tankie is neither the brightest nor the most liberal organ of the British Army, and most of them come from the rough side of the skids. They're in the Army because they'd be in prison if they weren't. Tough guys (girls aren't allowed in teeth-arm units) with tough attitudes and not much between the ears.
What they lost in brains and sensitivity, however, they more than made up for in looks and physique. These guys were ripped, and, with a few exceptions, devastatingly good-looking. Young, handsome and virile, and of them all it was Trooper James H that really made me hard. I was assigned a bed space in the room opposite his, but I first saw him in the communal Ablutions the first day I was with the Troop. He was washing at one of the sinks, a blue towel wrapped around his waist. Just shy of six foot he was 21-years old with jet black hair that curled on his perfectly defined chest and abdominals and formed a thick mat on his legs; he had a slightly ruddy complexion, but his square-jawed good looks were movie star grade. He was beautiful: a muscular athlete that epitomized everything I found attractive in a man.
On that occasion he greeted me with a "Hi mate, you the new guy...?" and a proffered hand-shake. His grip was firm, and I managed to say something affirmative in return, probably together with my name, to which he answered with his. What I noticed more was his accent: the un-educated would call it a rural accent, the caricature of a farmer's. It was actually a Somerset accent, and I later discovered that he had indeed grown up on a farm, but when I heard it the first time it seemed to me like the first major flaw in an otherwise perfect package.
We chatted for a while, exchanging small talk which I normally find difficult with those of less education. Oddly, James was easy to talk to, an honest seeming if little naive guy from some back-water rural hovel who nevertheless made a supreme effort to be interested in everyone else. I, of course, couldn't keep my eyes off his sculpted physique, particularly not the treasure trail of curling black hairs that ran from his navel, down his flat muscled skin into the neck of his towel, mere inches below which I imagined was his cock. God, in that instance I'd have done anything to rip that towel off him and give him the blow-job of his life. I restrained myself, which is more than can be said for my own dick, which -- had I not been wearing the fetching mid-thigh length green baggy sweatshirts of the ATR -- would have surely given the game away.
Nothing happened that night, despite my most ardent prayers, but I fantasized about James non-stop afterwards. Perhaps rather pathetically I made any excuse to be near him, even standing next to or, better yet, behind him in parade where I could check out his cute bubble-but. Of course people joked about my being gay, but no one associated my behavior with a fixation on Trooper H. Frustratingly, James and I did become good friends during the ceaseless rounds of PT, weapons training, drill, and classroom learning, but at no point did I get the feeling that James was as interested in me as I was in him, or indeed, interested at all. All I can say is that my gaydar must have been broken.
I saw James naked plenty of times after our first encounter. Modesty goes out of the window when you enter basic training: there's just no time for it. When you have ten minutes to change out of PT kit into drill uniform, figuring in the fact that nearly thirty men needed to get showered between changes of kit in just eight shower cubicles, modesty becomes meaningless. The first time I saw James nude was on one such occasion on my first week in the new troop. His cock was big, even when flaccid, and his curling dark bush hadn't been tampered with: he was all man. God I wanted him. But we were never alone on these occasions, and the best I could manage was a quick look when no-one else was looking. Still, those quick looks fuelled my desperate fantasies.
It was not until my fourth week in the RAC troop that I got my chance to be alone with him again. It was a Saturday night when most of the rest of the troop were up the Naafi (which wasn't really the Naafi, that's just what we called it: it was actually just a pub on camp for recruits to drink at on the weekend). I had decided to stay in, principally to indulge my fantasies about James with a palm-massage in the showers and could scarcely hide my delight when I found that James too had stayed behind.
Ablutions, the Army word for communal showers, at the ATR comprised an L shaped room, with the entry door at the top of the L, the sinks and mirrors down the left hand side of the long side and the showers against the top part of the shorter stalk. This meant that the shower-cubicles could not be seen from the doorway. Consequently, I had no idea that there was anyone else in the block until I rounded the corner to the showers and saw James standing in front of one of the cubicles, toweling himself off. He was gorgeous as ever, his short black hair still wet from the shower, rivulets of moisture glistening against the hard-curves of his perfect physique. The first thing I saw though was his cock -- that delicious thick dick with its pronounced and hooded head -- nestled on perfectly proportioned balls, covered in curling dark hairs. Seeing me, he quickly pulled the towel around his waist.
I chanced it; "Don't cover up on my account," I grinned. I was rewarded with the cutest blush in his ruddy complexion.
"Don't want you getting all excited," he tried back. Oh if only he knew!
"You not going up the Naafi with the others?" I asked, setting my towel and shower-gel on one of the little benches attached to a cubicle wall. To my surprise he didn't leave but setting his kit down on the adjacent windowsill started to sort through his toiletries.
"Nah, didn't fancy it tonight," he replied, "Not in the mood for Jock's shit..." He referred to the obligatory Scottish member of our troop: a loud exhibitionist who didn't mind showing his cock to anyone -- it was a shame he looked like he had fallen out of the Ugly Tree at birth and hit every branch on the way down.
"Yeah, it gets a bit much sometimes," I concurred, slowly folding my towel, trying to prolong the encounter. My eyes continued to flick over the contours of his torso; especially the gap between his belly button and the neck of the towel.
"He's a right wanker sometimes..." James added. "All he talks about is how many girls he's fucked...he's so full of shit..."
My instincts twinged a bit there; made me pause. "Yeah..." I agreed and trailed off. Then; "You got a girl friend James?" I asked casually.
"Nah..." he didn't elaborate, didn't meet my gaze, just kept on fiddling with his toiletries.
I decided to take a chance and started to undress as if I was getting ready to get in the shower.
"You got no girl to go back to at home?" I asked, peeling off my top. I wasn't as sculpted as James was, but I wasn't bad either. Army training made everyone fit, whether you wanted to be or not.
"Nah," he replied again, still not looking up.
"Fuck, that's tough," I said. "You gotta rely on Madam Palm and her five daughters then...?"
There was that cute blush again; "As always," he smiled. "Nothing like a good hard wank though..."
"Oh there's something better, I assure you," I said. I was down to my underwear now; CK shorts that were designed to accentuate a man's gifts. My gift was already semi-hard and I didn't try and hide it. He didn't reply to me, but as I looked up I noticed his gaze was on me, on my crotch to be precise.
I took a risk, I didn't have anything to lose, though I might have gained a few more jokes at my expense.
"I can show you if you like." I offered.
"What do you mean?" he asked in a half whisper. I stepped up close to him, so close that I could smell the shower-gel he had used. We didn't touch, but neither did he push me back or try to step away. Bolder, my cock now completely in control of my brain, I reached out and touched his flat stomach, pushed against the muscles. His skin was like silk, the muscles beneath like steel. Still, he didn't push me away. Slowly my hand traveled down his front, past his belly button to the top of his towel. I found its outer seam, reached in between his legs.
"J... don't..." he said, but he didn't sound convincing.
I was almost shaking as I felt first the fierce warmth and then the rigidity of his cock. He drew in a soft half-breath when I touched him.
"This isn't allowed," he murmured, his blue eyes meeting mine.
"Oh who gives a fuck," I snapped and grabbing his arm pulled him into the shower cubicle. Drawing the shower curtain across, I grabbed the towel and pulled it free. God, time stood still.
This Adonis stood before me nude in the shower, and he was as hard as steel. His beautiful, perfectly proportioned cock had hardened to seven heavy inches. The veins stood out like a road-map against the silken skin, his foreskin drawn back ever so slightly revealing the tip of his perfect cock-head.
"Fucking God..." I exclaimed and touched it again, drawing my hand along its length, hefting it in my palm. I'd bet he'd never been touched by another man there, if indeed he had been touched by anyone. His eyes half closed and he took that small intake of breath as I drew the foreskin away from his glans, felt the wetness there.
I was beyond excited; I could scarcely believe my good fortune. Here was this beautiful, A-grade specimen of manhood, about whom I had enjoyed four weeks of wanking fantasies, and now we were together alone in a shower cubicle and I was touching his hard cock. My hunger for him was as great as his need to get off.
I went at once to my knees and sticking out my tongue touched it to the head of his cock. There wasn't time for foreplay, not in that place. He sucked in his breath again, and then as I l drove my tongue into the groove of his glans and then the length of his shaft to his heavy balls he gave a soft moan. I nuzzled against his crotch, felt his balls on my chin and lips, his cock across my cheek. Any thought about the illegality of "fratting' or the chance of discovery by our troop-mates or the training staff went right out the window. All I could think about was this god's cock. Hungrily I closed my lips around his cock head, again forced my tongue under his foreskin and into the piss-slit. Then, using techniques I'd learnt during a clandestine extra-curricular syllabus at Sixth Form (that's Senior High School to the none Brits), I began to slide my lips the length of his tool. As I did so my hands were all over him, as if I couldn't get enough. His body was iron dressed in velvet, soft and rock hard at the same time; I loved the way his muscles moved under my hands as his member pulsed in my mouth.
"Oh shit J," he gasped as I started to get into a sucking rhythm. I had forgotten that these were not normal circumstances: that no man in the ATR masturbated as regularly as normal. I should have heard the urgency in his voice, slowed down, but I was too engrossed in sucking this thick, delicious cock. He must not have cum for days, because suddenly he let out a terrific gasp, a moan of pleasure as he reached climax. The force of his ejaculation scalded the back of my throat; I nearly gagged as he spilled his cum into my mouth. It was hot, and bitter but could have been nectar. I swallowed as much as I could, as his hips bucked and emptied himself, but taken a bit by surprise at both the speed and quantity some leaked out of the seal I had around his cock and dribbled down my chin.
"Oh my God...oh fuck..." he exclaimed in his cute Somerset accent; his big, powerful hands rested on my shoulders as his last spurt came out onto my tongue. "Christ...I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."
I cleaned his cock off, then stood and his eyes met mine. My hands were all over him again and I pressed my mouth fiercely against his. His lips parted and our kiss became passionate -- wondered if he could taste his own cum. I could feel his stubble against mine, and I pressed my body against his hard body, trying to feel every inch of him. His cock was still hard between us and I hoped he was capable of going again.
But then a noise came from outside; the tell-tale bang of one of the interconnecting doors from the stairwell. The terror of imminent discovery killed both our hard-ons in an instant. He swore in terror, stumbled in his rush to get out of the cubicle.
"James..." I hissed after him as he grabbed his stuff, pulled his towel back around his waist. "I fucking want you!"
He swallowed, gave a half shake of his head. There was confusion in the beautiful eyes, maybe guilt too. Shit! I grabbed his hand as he went to go, pulled him back into another fierce kiss. His resistance melted a little; I reached down gave his hefty package a squeeze through the towel. He pushed me away.
"It's too fucking dangerous, J..." he exclaimed. He started as the connecting door in the corridor banged again. "And I'm not gay..."
"Fuck off! Like fuck you're not..." I swore at him, but it was too late he was on his way, leaving me shivering with frustration in the cold shower booth.
Suddenly my elation was tempered with near despair: was that it? A quick and desperate liaison with this most gorgeous man, never to be repeated, ended by the terror of discovery and his self-denial. In the aftermath all I could think about was the feel of his sex, the taste of him in my mouth, and my overwhelming desire to fuck him silly. I hated the Army in that moment, would have done anything to be elsewhere.
But I'm a determined guy, and I quickly decided that James and I would repeat our encounter.
To be continued...