Date: Mon, 30 Oct 2017 16:35:12 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Patriot UP 3

Please see original story
(www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/patriot-up/) for warnings and
copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex
between adult and young-adult men. Much of the sex it coercive. Go away if
any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my
characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of
future stories. Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html
to keep the cum coming.

*****

I looked to Bobby whose eyes looked like he would cry with pleasure or,
possibly, pride as he nodded at me. I shot the rye and my eyes crossed, but
I managed to husk out, "Yes, sir! Thank you, Patriot Manager Captain
Schoen, Red, sir. Thank you, sir! May I get you another beer, sir?" He
laughed as I scurried to retrieve another for him and for Bobby.

"Get a second for yourself, Bronco. I have a feeling this is going to be a
long night. And you're wearing too many clothes. Let's see what has Bobby--
I mean, Patriot O'Stallion -- so... smug, shall we?"

*****

Patriot UP! 3 - Beaver Moon Waxing

By Bear Pup

*****

I grabbed another round of beers and presented one each to Red and Bobby,
setting mine aside for a moment. "Sir, there are only six more cold. May I
restock for you sir?"

"Good idea." He reached into his pocket and pulled out an inch-long,
box-braided leather lanyard with a PERK at the end. I was a little taken
aback. The Personal Electronic RFID Key (PERK) standard was only about two
years old and I'd just started using them at work. The little miracles cost
a fortune, using an insanely-strong algorithm along with the body's
individual electrical field to create a hyper-secure signature. I could see
Bobby looking with interest but no sign of recognition.

"Interesting. Apparently, you know PERK." Red rolled the face of his ring
along the edge of the black disk. It was small-enough to fit on a
fingernail and about the thickness of two coins stacked. Captain Schoen
motioned me over, making sure not to touch the PERK himself. "Pinch." I
reached out and pinched the little disk between my thumb and forefinger
gently (pinch too hard and the imprint fails) and waited for the telltale
BZZ sensation. "You are a man of hidden depths, Bronco. Out the door and to
the right. Circle the hutment and you'll find a locker. Grab, um,
hmm... Yeah, grab Grub Pack 9102 from the rear section. I'll explain when
you're back."

The "locker" was the size of shipping containers from old movies. There was
no handle; hell, you couldn't even tell there was a door! I spotted a
round, raised spot about at shoulder-height, white on the off-white
CeramiSteel, and pressed the PERK to it. There was a soft hiss and the door
recessed about half an inch and then swung inwards. The air inside was
markedly cooler which surprised me. I stepped inside, and the door shut and
resealed behind me.

Automation on anything that was not a weapon was rare amongst the
Patriots. Security, especially, was handled less through theft-prevention
and more through instant and often-lethal punishment for anything that
might be considered theft alongside the typical painful and humiliating
punishments for misuse of stores. Having PERK level security on an
AI-driven storage unit was... stunning. There was a glowing switch for an
LED string, but the translucent CeramiSteel let enough of the late
afternoon light in for me to see easily. As per usual, I did my best NOT to
notice what might be in any of the crates, boxes and barrels around me.

About halfway back was another PERK door. I keyed it and a section about a
meter tall and a meter off the ground slid open. I was perplexed until the
icy breath came out. The section was refrigerated within a few degrees of
freezing and the door was staged so that you could open the middle
(default), the middle and top, or the whole door, maximizing the retention
of the cold air inside. Another PERK door was at the far end; I assumed it
was a freezer section.

I clambered in and found GP-9102. Packs in the section to the immediate
right of the door were, in fact, all labeled with the 9000 series codes,
one I'd never seen before. All of them in that stack were the six-pack
size. A full-sized Grub Pack was an eighth of a cubic meter, a cube 50 cm
to a side made of a semi-clear, mostly-rigid plastic. A "six-pack" was a
sixth that size, about 16.5 cm wide and tall but still 50 cm deep so they
would still "cube up". Water was always six-packed to make a pair of
containers reasonable to carry by hand. GP-9102 sloshed but weighed less
than half a water-pack.

I pulled it and looked for the chitty. You NEVER move ANYTHING without
signing it in and out with a chitty, usually a paper book or a
clipboard. Sometimes, like when I personally was handed off as a Zombie or
Walking Loot, the chitty would be verbal as when Seven Leader told
Witkowski, "You have the Zombie," and Witty responded, "ACK, Patriot Seven
Leader. Secure Zombie." With goods, especially with rations and most
definitely with anything containing alcohol or other "recreationals", the
chitty was always written. There was none in sight, so I pulled a scrap of
paper and a pencil stub and wrote, "GP-9102 trans MgrCpt Schoen via ZLC." I
always chitted things ZLC for Zombie Larry Coos and didn't know the
protocol for signing with Provisional Human status.

I moved back out and secured the fridge door and the main one for the
locker, double-checking the security of each. For all that, I'd only been
gone a couple minutes when I came back in. Red and Bobby were talking and,
as I would normally expect, made no notice or mention of my return. I set
down the GP and popped the seals and could not contain a whistle. I sensed
the conversation stop abruptly and turned and knelt in partial kowtow. "The
Zombie humbly begs to apologize for interrupting the Patriots discussion,
sir."

Red spoke. "Okay, new rules. First, you're not a Zombie, though Provisional
Humans don't have a lot more respect. Don't interrupt a Patriot, of course,
but making a normal noise is not a punishable offense. Next, look at men
when you talk to them, son. Be careful how you do it, but don't kowtow
unless there's a damned good reason. You may be a Patriot one day, equal to
every other man of your rank. Look it. Lastly, inside this tent, it's
damned awkward to use protocol. Treat me and Bobby with respect and we'll
get along fine. Now, put the shit in the cooler and plate the contents of
the Zip marked 'anti'. And you're still overdressed."

"AFTER stowing the food, Coo-- um, Bronco, give Red a show." Bobby said
with a blush and a smirk.

"Um, sir? Before I do, I need to know where the official chitties are for
the locker? I signed a bare-sheet sir, but I don't want--"

"That locker is my personal domain, Bronco. That PERK in the AI is the only
chitty you need to worry about. Plate and strip, son." I blinked
rapidly. That locker held a battalion-sized supply set and it was "Captain"
Schoen's personal larder? Who the fuck was this guy? That all went through
my mind in a blink as I turned back to the Grub Pack.

The GP held 14 beers in a bed of snow, but what was on top was the cause of
my whistle. One bag said 'anti' -- obviously for antipasto as there were
cured meats and cheeses with various veggies, fall/winter fruits and even
what looked like actual crackers. Two other bags, one marked 'primo' and
the other 'secondo', held small, foil-wrapped parcels of unguessable
natures. There was also a foil-wrapped slab of what looked for the world
like focaccia. I pulled a china platter for the antipasto from the shelf
above the stove. Yep; those were real fucking honest-to-Providence
water-crackers. Holy crap! Yellowstone Territories didn't have crackers and
I paid a goddamned fortune for the tour!

I carefully laid out the spread, Cheese in the center, meats to the North,
crackers to the south, veggie to the west and fruits to the east. "May I
serve that Patriot's antipasto, sir?" I put the platter on the table next
to Red, who smiled.

"Damn, son. Part of what you're gonna tell me is how you know how to serve
Italian, but I can wait on that. For now, lose the clothes, Bronco."

I still had the rest of the GP to deal with, but an order was an order. I
decided to combine the two, as well as Bobby's "give him a show." I toed
off my boots and set them aside, flexing my arms and chest inside my
clothing. I turned back toward the cooler and unhooked my web belt and
pants and shimmied them down. The tail of my shirt hid my actual ass, but
the shape and musculature were certainly on display through the cloth. I
folded them and set them aside, then spread my knees wide when I knelt and
bent in a way that made the bulge of my tackle extremely visible from
behind in spite of the boxers.

Okay, pause a minute. So, how the fuck does a straight guy know how to do
this? Well, two reasons. First, I had a complete fucking freak of a
girlfriend once who loved for me to do a striptease with my ungainly and
oversized body, more for her amusement than anything else. Second -- and
much more importantly -- Bobby loved watching me undress and I'd made it my
mission to have him leaking into his PASUs any time I was able to get ready
for bed with him in the tent. Lastly, I'd noticed that some of the guys had
fetishes I hadn't even known about before, so I made sure to present
anything that might even possibly entice the Captain.

I continually rolled and flexed the heavy muscles of my back and shoulders
as I set aside the primo and secondo and packed the beer and then snow into
the cooler. I rolled my neck like it was sore and brought both arms to my
neck, using them to slowly remove the shirt, wriggling it down my arms and
back as I clamped the cooler shut. I knew that my chest, back and arms were
pretty impressive and most guys (especially my precious Bobby) loved
them. I stood and, making sure never to look at them, peeled off my
undershirt and folded it on top of the trousers.

That left me in socks and a pair of boxers. I'd been careful when undoing
my pants to "accidentally" bunch the boxers in very strategic ways. I
stretched hugely, maximizing every part of my body like a big cat preparing
to feast, then scratched. Yes, scratched. I'd found that the act of
scratching pits and chest and belly and crotch was intensely erotic to many
of the Patriots and I smiled (inside, of course) when I heard Red's breath
catch.

I turned away and pulled off my shorts with little ceremony -- the whole
slow-reveal thing was NOT a Patriot turn on -- and let my ass flex and
writhe. I turned and, for the first time, met Red's eyes. There was fire
there, the kind of fire that consumed everything and left nothing but
ashes, smoke and transcendent satisfaction behind.  I let my left hand
smooth down my hair and go under my balls, pushing the entire package
forward. Red's breath was short and quick. Out of the corner of my eye, I
could see Bobby beaming with desire and delight.

"I'm so sorry, Patriot," I purred in my deepest and most-seductive
bear-voice, "was that not good? I can... do it again."

At that moment, a knock came next to the cloth "door" and I dove to the
side grabbing (inevitably) nothing but a sock to protect what modesty I
still pretended to possess. "COME!" Red's voice was a bit hoarse, but
certainly commanding.

A boy, certainly not yet a Patriot, entered, Adam's Apple bobbing like a
cork. "Um, sir, I, um?" He'd just spotted me and his eye bugged out.

"Jeezus and Providence, son: 'um' WHAT?"

The boy ripped his eyes from me and back to the Captain. "I have a summons
from the Matron of Duty, sir."

"Oh, fuck? Seriously? Tonight?" Red was obviously disgruntled as he started
to stand.

"No! I mean, yes, sir, but..."

"Kid, get to the point!" Red's growl was as sharp as a whip and twice as
worrisome.

The kid squeaked and sounded very much like a teakettle boiling over,
"It'ssssssss not for you sssssssssir! The sssssummonssssss is for
SSSSSSSSeven Manager O'SSSSSSSSSStallion, sssssssssir!" The sound could
also have been the kid pissing his PASUs; he was utterly terrified.

Bobby gasped. Red looked at him, then addressed the obviously-terrified
kid. "Go!" The kid 'went' at a speed that left a contrail behind and I
would have followed. Red's tone spoke of serious unhappiness about to
befall... somebody. My Bobby's eyes were huge and afraid, pleading silently
with Red.

"Son, you knew it would happen. You have to do your duty as a Patriot,
son. Bobby, listen to me. It's fine. You can do this. You HAVE TO do this."
His voice was one of rational calm, the exact voice of the Titanic's
captain explaining to the First Mate that the iceberg hadn't *really* been
that bad and that, even if it was, drowning in icy water was a quick and
painless way to go.

Since no one was speaking, I took a chance with my new Provisional Human
designation. "Sir? Bobby? Red? What's happening? What can I do, sir?"

He turned to me. "Sorry, Bronco, but this is Patriot Duty calling. The
Matron of Duty is responsible for the continuation of the Patriot
cause. She decided which Patriots are to... create the next
generation. She's decided that Bobby, now that he's a full Patriot, needs
to... needs to..."

"Fuck a woman and have a child!" Bobby's wail was harsh and stabbed my
heart with knives of ice. "I can't Red. I CAN'T! I told you! I can't!"

Just as Captain Schoen started to answer, he felt my paw on his shoulder
and turned with a glare that could melt glaciers (if any had been left
after Trump's anti-climate-change crusade). "I'm sorry sir. But I've got
this." He looked like he'd rather murder me, but he stepped back.

I moved in and slapped Bobby, my precious Bobby, and heard Red growl and
grab some weapon or other. "Bobby! Bobby! Shut up and listen. Do this. Do
this or everything dies. You CANNOT shirk your duty, Patriot! You CANNOT
leave me. You WILL do this, Bobby!"

"But I can't, Coosey!" His voice was that of a child, a little boy told to
do the impossible, like multiplication tables in his head or memorizing
Invictus.

"BULLSHIT! Fucking is fucking, Bobby. You've fucked me senseless and you
know it!"

"But you're... And she'll be--!"

"Not if you. Close! Your! Eyes!"

"What?!?"

"Once you're in, Bobby, it's me. That's my hole you're plundering. It's my
tits you're tweaking. It's my moans you're hearing. Bobby! Look at me! I'd
never touched a man, Bobby. Never once, before you. It was all women. And
yet I fucked myself ball-dry. You can do that Bobby. I know you can. You
are my Robert, my stud. You are my Stallion. You are my PATRIOT!"

"I-I-I-I-I-I am?"

"You are my everything, Bobby. And you know what? There are a couple
thousand fuckers out there who call themselves Patriots who couldn't even
give me a boner. One TOUCH from you and I'm quivering, Bobby. You gonna let
those assholes show you up? You gonna let them pretend they are more MAN
than my Bobby? You gonna go crawl off and let them win? Was Daddy right and
you're just not up to it, little boy?"

"Fuck you, Coosey!" I loved pissing him off. It meant some
seriously-raunchy sex later.

"NO! Fuck some bitch who doesn't know she's gonna get the hottest fucking
sex machine in these mountains. Now, you go out there and you show those
bitches that you are the best Providence-damned Patriot that's ever
walked. You show them that you can fuck with the best of them. Then you
come back, and I will give you a welcome you have never fucking
imagined. Get the fuck out there and prove you are what I think you are,
Patriot!"

He growled at me, which told me I'd won and won big. "You fucking bastard."
He turned to stomp out, then paused. Without looking over his shoulder he
said, gruffly, "And take care of Red. I mean REALLY take care of him,
Coosey." With that he was through the hanging 'door' and away.

I stared at where he'd been. The whole performance had been to save
Bobby. I had come to love him deeply in the months since I'd been his
Witness. I knew he had to do this. The excuse for fucking a guy in the
Blood Moon ritual was to prove he could "do his duty" as a Patriot by
engendering the next generation upon a Patriot woman. He'd be put down as a
Dog if he didn't, and my life was not worth seeing that happen to
him. However, that would not and could not excuse a piece of Walking Loot
slapping a Patriot, and certainly not berating him in front of a superior
officer.

I was very proud that I kept my voice strong and level. "Okay, Manager
Captain Schoen, you can gut me now. Do you want me to turn around or not,
sir?" There was nothing but silence behind me and I could feel the hair on
the back of my neck prickle as I awaited the blade that would end me. Tiny
places on my skin would quiver in expectation of the blow, then go still as
the sensation moved elsewhere. It was nearly intolerable, but I'd be damned
if I was going to let it show. "Sir? It's a bit chilly standing here naked
and, frankly, a little boring staring at a curtain. Could we speed things
along?"

"Turn around, and do it slowly." I did and met his blazing, furious eyes. I
refused to let my gaze drop to what, in my peripheral vision, I could see
was a large, Tanto-shaped combat knife. I kept my face impassive and
controlled, and my voice as well.

"I know I'm forfeit, Patriot, but I could not stand and let them Dog Bobby,
sir." Dogging was the ultimate punishment for a fallen Patriot. He was
stripped, hamstrung and had his cock and balls cut off with a serrated
blade, then left to the knives of youths who had not yet had a chance to
kill a man at close quarters. Since the kids were young, inexperienced and
usually terrified/horrified/crying, it could take an hour before one of the
boys finally got in a killing blow.

His eyes just barely telegraphed his unimaginably-fast strike. I called up
every reserve I had to not flinch away or cry out, but I couldn't stop my
gut muscles from clenching. If I had, I would have been spared the
inch-wide scar on the left side of my belly. Tensing had pushed my abs
forward a few millimeters, exactly the depth of the wound. It was the same
feel as a paper cut, intense and brief. I gritted my teeth and kept his
gaze locked to mine.

Red held the pose for a moment then tensed his shoulders to gut me
completely. Instead, in a display of speed like I'd never seen, the blade
was blocking my view of his eyes. The blade was one of the most
terrifyingly-beautiful things I'd ever seen. It was some sort of Damascus
steel with rippling, watery lines of dark and light in the metal
itself. The blunt tip was bloody.

Red's voice dripped menace and venom. "This blade has tasted you, boy. It
will drink your soul next time. I can't even tell you why I stopped. I
guarantee you I won't next time. Are we clear?"

I was blinking in shock. Next time? There should definitely not have been a
next time. He should be gutting me even as we spoke. "Um, no, Patriot, sir?
I'm not clear at all. Why am I not currently trying to pick my intestines
up off the floor, sir?"

The knife vanished and his eyes were back. The red fury was still there,
but so was some confusion and a bit of... respect, perhaps? "I don't
know. I honestly don't. Maybe Providence stopped my hand?" His voice was
gruff and annoyed, clearly out of his normal element. "Regardless, you're
bleeding all over my hutment. Fix that, then we'll talk."

He was right. A nice stream of blood was flowing from the near-surgical cut
in my abdomen. I grabbed a Steak (an easy-to-open pad of hyper-absorbent
gauze that all Patriots carried as part of the EDC; it took its name from
what it resembled *after* use) and applied hard pressure. Trust me; that
hurt twenty times as much as the cut! There were probably a zillion
different antibiotic, antifungal and ACWA (anti-chemical warfare agent,
pronounced "aqua") things in there, and every fucking one of them burned
like the fires of hell.

With the other hand, I fished out my roll of Derma-Tape. This wonder of
modern medicine sealed any wound when you'd stopped the actual bleeding,
and kept it sealed until it was nothing but a scar, then magically peeled
itself off. The guys mainly just called them Scabs, but I'd used the stuff
for years. I peeked a couple times until I was sure the pressure on the
Steak had stopped my leakage and applied a strip of the Derma-Tape. Unless
it leaked, I was done. I'd check before bed and again when I washed in the
morning.

One of the things that made the Steak-n-Scab combination so prized amongst
the Patriots was what made it so hated in civilization. In addition to
offering healing that was quick, relatively-painless and efficient for all
but the worst wounds, it guaranteed a nice scar. I flipped the Steak over
and spit on it (hygienically, of course) and used it to clean up the blood
on my leg and foot that had leaked before Red brought the situation to my
attention.

I looked up and Red nodded to a small container in the corner with the
familiar bio-trefoil. I teased my finger along the lip of the
tightly-sealed container and a small flap parted gently. Under it was a
clamp-lock on a smaller, thick-walled chamber. I threw the Steak in,
reclamped the inside and released the flap, watching it reseal itself
invisibly and securely. I heard a schlaaaaaTICK noise that told me that the
sterilizer inside had just flooded the chamber with enough heat to ash
small medical items followed by intense UV radiation to sterilize what
might be left. All Medic and PersIntel teams carried them, but to see one
in an individual's quarters was both impressive and
intimidating. Apparently, people frequently found the need to dispose of
medical waste around Captain Schoen far more frequently than I was
comfortable with.

The man who'd just stabbed but decided not to kill me was still standing
behind me. I could feel it. "Um, sir? I am still confused," I told the
hutment's wall. "Do I still call you 'Red' or 'Captain Schoen' or 'Death
Come Knocking', sir?"

There was a sound like someone sucking a lemon, then a chuckle. "Let's
stick with Red and Bronco for now, son. Have a seat."

I turned. Yep. He was standing there, arms at rest and thus ready to handle
anything a perpetually-pissed-off universe could throw at him. I hadn't
really looked at the small man before. I'd been big since I was a toddler,
so smaller guys have always sort of fascinated me. Not sexually, of course,
because I didn't bend that way. Then again, Red was stunning. The whipcord
power he displayed when he barely-didn't gut me virtually glowed. He was
like a fierce dynamo held in check by force of will. It was honestly the
first time that any male had ever intrigued me the way Bobby did, with a
pure flush of lust.

"Sir, is that a directive or a suggestion, Patriot? Seven Manager
O'Stallion gave me instructions before leaving and I need to know if you
are superseding them, sir."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "What instructions?"

I moved forward until I was just outside his personal space and set my
growling voice low. "He said I was to take care of you, sir." I let a hint
of a purr in, "to REALLY take care of you, to be specific. May I complete
my orders, sir?"

Captain Schoen rolled his head to one side and then the other, scanning me
up and down like he was inspecting a car that was for sale. "And what do
you interpret that to mean, Bronco?"

"I don't have to interpret, Red. Bobby has been very specific over the
months." I reached forward. Red tensed as I started to unbutton his PASU
blouse, but he relaxed and luxuriated in my touch as I lovingly stroked his
chest, nipples and belly through the undershirt as I worked the blouse away
from his body. I felt the cord and hardness of a neck-carry between his
flat, rock-hard pecs. As I pushed the garment off his shoulders and leaned
forward, I breathed, "Do you have any AC or ABPs, Red?" Always-Carry and
Appended Body Parts never, ever leave a Patriot's person.

His eyes glittered. "You felt the punch at my neck. And don't ask about OR
TOUCH the bracelet."

"Can I... 'TOUCH' the Patriot? Sir?" I smirked as I leaned in, not waiting
for an answer and ran my stubbly beard down his neck, trailed by my
tongue. He sighed deeply, and I felt my own loins stir, another thing that
had never happened for a man other than my O'Stallion. The sweat tasted
like leather and venison and the rye whiskey we'd shared. I sighed myself
and the flesh of his neck shivered slightly as my breath stroked it.

I dropped to my knees slowly, sensuously, keeping contact with Red's small
but powerful frame. As I unlaced his boots, I ground my face into his
crotch, reveling in the way it made him huff. The scent of his feet was not
even a little bit erotic, but not really foul. It was just... feet. His web
belt came next, something that takes exceptional care with any
Patriot. There are a lot of ways to die that can be attached to a web belt.

I eased his fly open and was nearly punched by his rock-hard fireplug of a
dick. The only thing holding it in had been the tough and durable fabric of
the PASUs. With that removed, it jabbed forward, but what actually smacked
me hard was Red's scent. The sweat of his neck had tasted delicious, but
this smell was nothing short of intoxicating. The richness of rare meat and
the spice of brown leather were like carrier-scents for something that
screamed MAN-SEX. I literally had to shake my head to clear it enough to
continue. I rolled my face in the heady musk as I shimmied the trousers
down and he stepped out of them. I huffed his scent deeply and loudly as I
removed his socks and looked up.

Red's face was flushed and his breathing deep and hard. I rose slowly,
never losing eye contact, as I pulled his undershirt up and over his
head. As soon as it cleared the area, my lips were making love to his
nipple and he made the first real sound, a midnight-deep moan, soft and
subtle. I got the shirt off and opened my eyes, staring straight at the
neck-knife he wore.

I'd seen them before in virtually every shape and size. Except for men with
thick and wiry chest hair (like me, if I became a Patriot), virtually
everyone wore one. This was... unique. First off, I hadn't seen a clear
magnetic sheath very often, and certainly not like this one. The knife
inside was a piece of metal thicker than a one-Euro coin. It had a large
hole at the center -- again reminding me of a Euro in size -- a
skeleton-grip tang on one side and a wide, triangular head opposite. A
brutal chisel-point tapered to each edge and back to where the blade became
the grip, just north of the finger-hole in the middle.

The blade was the color of Red's slightly-tanned skin, complete with flecks
that matched his reddish body hair, making the blade just visible against
his chest. The edges, though... The point edges sparkled like diamonds,
chisel-ground and polished to the brightest shine I think I'd ever seen on
metal. Red called it a punch, another name for a push-knife, but that did
not explain the razor-sharp edges to either side, allowing it to slash as
well as thrust. It was a lethal, last-resort weapon and I had no doubt that
the three-inch blade was, to anyone facing Red in a fight, at least 2.99
inches too long for their desire to live a long and happy life.

I licked across from Red's left nipple and he arched his neck to see what I
was doing, then gasped and shuddered slightly. I was making tongue-love to
his knife. A Patriot's weaponry is his soul, and the more personal the
weapon, the more intensely-important it was to the man. A knife like this?
It was slightly less important than his cock. He might not have nerves
where I was licking, but his soul reveled in every spit-slick swipe. I
continued to tongue my way up the paracord until I reached his neck and
nuzzled my way beneath his chin to lick and stroke the sensitive V at the
bottom.

By this point, his sighs were deeper and needier. I worked down the other
side of the lanyard, thoroughly licked the underside of the knife and Red's
chest (the paler skin telling that this really was an ABP), then on to his
right nipple. His breathing got shorter as I found out the style he liked
on his tits -- quick, darting swipes from unexpected angles damn near had
the man lactating! I moved from my crouch (he was well over a foot shorter
than my own bearish frame) and began to lick his earlobe.

"Can I serve the Patriot his Antipasto, sir?"

"Whu?"

I nibbled the earlobe gently then purred, "You're hungry, sir. I can't let
a Patriot go... unsatisfied." I pulled away and was delighted with the
bowstring vibration of his taut and needy body. I reached over and wrapped
a slice of prosciutto around a date and pushed it into Red's mouth. He
chewed and sighed. I poured a sip of his beer into the shot glass that
Bobby had been using and brought to his lips. He smiled as he shot it, by
which time I had pushed some of what I hoped was robiola into a small,
roasted and marinated pepper. While he chewed that, I got industrious and
had a half-dozen little morsels. Cracker with taleggio, salami wrapped
around a green onion with a smear of robiola, pepperoni with mozzarella,
and all the little combinations that I love so much myself.

I raised one of his arms and started to wallow in his pit, pausing whenever
I sensed a swallow to grope over and get a nugget of Italian heaven to his
lips. When he tasted of nothing but my spit, I pulled back and quickly
assembled a new half-dozen goodies, heavy this time on the sharp fruits
likes pears, persimmons and apples, paired with sumptuous cheeses and, for
the pears, meats. That got me through the other pit and to the point that
he was quivering again.

"My apologies, Patriot. You must be bored standing like that. Can I help
you sit on your bunk, sir?"  He looked at me like I was crazy, then noticed
the twinkle in my eyes. I ground my chest against him as I sunk back to my
knees. For the last half of the journey, my thumbs dragged his boxers down
as well, leaving me face to face with... a tree stump.

His cock, rock-hard and lightly dripping, was cut and about five inches
long. It was also easily seven, perhaps eight, inches in circumference. My
huge paws barely could have wrapped around it. The head was so blunt it
looked almost as if someone had lopped the end off. My asshole flexed
between twitching need of, "I've got to have that!" and clamped fear of,
"that's gonna fucking rip me open!" I skipped that, relishing the explosion
of musk but skipping that pleasure as well.

Instead, I ran my hands down the back of Red's thick legs and felt him
shiver. It was a sensation few guys really understood, that stroking in the
same direction as the hairs while a guy looks down on you like a conquering
hero was one of the great lust-rushes in the world. I knee-shuffled
forward, forcing Red to step back until he was a few inches from the edge
of his bunk.  I locked my huge hands behind his knees and moved forward,
licking and snuffling his deliciously-rank crotch. I pushed forward harder
and harder, driving my face into the gaps on either side of his balls
until, with an OOMPH he found himself sitting on his bunk, his eyes wide
and very, very impressed. I smiled and his grin faltered; as one predator
to another, he knew that look.

I never let go of the back of his knees and only for that instant's look
lost contact with his crotch. I dove back in, making my best piggy noises
as I hoovered up that incredible musk. He resisted strongly when I started
to lift his knees, but unless he wanted to gut me, he was in no position to
stop their inexorable rise. With each inch they ascended, my lips and teeth
and tongue went a little lower until I got to his trench.

With a sound like Smaug choking on a hobbit, he gurgle-groaned his ecstasy
as I hit the very edge of his forbidden entrance. I sensed -- eyes buried
in his ample balls so sight was not an option -- his hands move toward his
now-dripping cock and pulled back. A furious bark-cough greeted the loss of
sensation, but I stared straight into his eyes.

"You, Patriot, are in charge. You can jack one out if you like, Red. But
you have no idea the places I can take you if you decide to let me, Patriot
Manager Captain Schoen. Tell me, sir, whether you just want to cum or
fucking detonate like a nuclear bomb, Captain. The choice is, as always,
with the Patriot, sir." I held his gaze and he literally whimpered a little
when he pulled his hands and put them behind his head.

I spent ten full minutes teasing out the inner lining of his ass, then
sucking, licking and nibbling it until he was thrashing his head from side
to side. When I decided he was ready, I moved up and captured as much of
his cock -- which bore a frightening resemblance to a Genoa Salami -- into
my mouth as one hand kept his knees up and the other played a concerto on
his asslips. I let him get to the very edge three time until he said --
screamed -- the magic words, "Get me off or I will gut you and fuck your
carcass you motherfucking bastard." Ah, the sweet nothings whispered upon
the wings of a romantic night.

The fireplug analogy went brilliantly with his actual eruption as well. Red
gushed in long, heavy streams from his thick meatus. Each was accompanied
by a snort-bellow-cough exactly like a bull finishing on a heifer. He sat
up and I found his intensely-strong hands on my head, locking me in
place. A long growl followed the last major spurt and suddenly I was
swallowing as quickly as I could. Red's piss flooded out faster than I
could actually get it down and more than a little escaped. I almost choked
in surprise, though, when I found out his actual orgasm wasn't over,
either.

Red was experiencing something I'd always thought as a myth: a
piss-orgasm. The aftershocks were intense enough that he let out the
growling roar of a Rottweiler about to eat a trespasser as each one
struck. The piss-flood would ebb, replaced for a moment by watery (pissy)
cum, before the flow returning with renewed force. Other than his hands
that locked my head in place, Red was writhing with the incredible
intensity of the sensations wracking his body. I just held on for dear
life, snatching a quick snort of breath when I could. The fucker had the
bladder of a goddamned camel!

The piss-orgasm when on for at least five minutes, with me sucking out
every spurt and returning for anything that might leak from his other
spasms. The flow finally stopped, and I suckled the last urine-infused
spurt of semen. When he started speaking in nonsense syllable heavy with
'sh' and 'mnm' and 'ck' and untranscribable-whine-noises, I figured I'd
done pretty well. He flopped back onto his rack and huffed and chuffed to
try and re-oxygenate his system.

I moved back to the cooler and extracted the parcels marked primo and
secondo from the cooler. I teased open a couple of each foil-wrapped
bundle. The primo was gnocchi with some sort of pesto and the secondo was
some sort of meat in sauce with a contorno-packet of small pasta with cut
veggies. There was a piece of tape that read, "PR in until spits. SEC/CON
in until steam." The stove in the corner was a double-pot, a potbelly stove
with a shelf above for kettles and a small section below for roasting. I
stoked it hard and put the packet of the primo and focaccia in the lower
hotbox.

Since my focus had been Bobby, Red and the cooler since I arrived, I took a
moment to examine the hutment. The bunks were a bit over two meters long
and well over one wide -- generous by Patriot standards -- with a meter or
so between them. The Captain had his side-table next to his rack, but it
could clearly be moved to act as a dining table with the two bunks doubling
as chairs; there were two wooden chairs racked on the shelf that ran at
about two meters high around the entire hutment, holding a variety of
trunks, boxes and gear, all neatly arranged.  A rather-impressive
armament-locker covered the wall above the cooler next to the door, holding
at least five long guns and a variety of personal weapons including an
actual saber, seemingly-incongruous alongside automatic pistols and
scatter-guns.

I heard the gnocchi start to "spit" as the instructions so elegantly put it
and deftly pulled the foil wrapper and plated the dish on a pasta plate,
snagging a set of silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin. A few of the
gnocchi had, predictably, crisped on the bottom, giving them the appearance
of tiny pot-stickers. I broke off a quarter of the bread and rewrapped the
rest, tucked a packet each of the secondo and contorno into the hotbox,
then turned to see Red watching me closely.

"May I serve the Patriot his primo piatto, sir?" He nodded, and I set the
pasta-plate down and handed him the setup. "Would you like some grated
Romano, sir?"

He frowned at me, puzzled. "There was no grated cheese in the GP, son."

I reached over to my folded clothes and slipped my EDC knife from the
sheath and flipped it open. It was a combat knife that flirted with being a
multitool. The heavy steel could punch through just about anything, and the
double-edged form of the blade was convenient. The handle had all sorts of
fun stuff, but it was the back half of the spine that worked for me now; it
was serrated in a way that made an excellent cheese-grater. I reached over
to the forgotten antipasto and grabbed the small chunk of Romano and grated
it over the gnocchi as Red just stared.

"Okay, now SIT!" he growled. I found my ass on Bobby's bunk before my brain
even processed the words. This guy must have one hell of a way with dogs!
"Start with where you learned to serve Céna Italiano correctly."

I smiled as he ate the gnocchi, the smell of which was making my stomach
rumble. "I worked my way through school waiting tables in the evening and
being a bouncer at night. I like Italian food, so--"

"What school and when?"

"University of Nebraska, graduated 2021 just as the TAB stuff started, then
Duke in the new Environmental Reconstruction field for MS in 2024. In
Lincoln, I served mainly at a little place called Avoli Osteria, but I
learned a lot more at Mothers & Sons in Durham."

"Duke, huh? So, you were right in the middle of Take America Back, and back
east for TEOTWAWKI?" The End Of The World As We Know It, what most people
call the point at which It Hit the Fan, was already becoming a "year zero"
in people's lives.

"Yes, sir."

"Check the secondo and then resume, please." I found that the foil packets
were steaming nicely so I plated the pork in a rich sauce reminiscent of
marsala but deeper in color, and the veggie-pasta dish as the side. "Grab
another setup, too." I assumed he'd dropped his fork and was shocked when I
turned. He'd left roughly a third of the gnocchi on the pasta plate and
pushed it to my side of the table. I cheesed up Red's plate and put it in
front of him. "Sit. Eat. No backtalk about eating in front of a Patriot. I
don't like eating alone." His voice was gruff.

The flavor and texture of the gnocchi were heaven, no doubt about it. I
sighed. "So, Bronco, can you cook as well as serve?"

"Um, sir? Uh, yeah, but not like this! This is amazing!"

He smiled wanly. "Yeah, Tony was a treasure. Great guy, utterly ruthless
and, until recently, seemingly-invincible. And the best damn cook I've ever
met. Got capped by a Goon sniper two months ago while setting the charges
that took out the forward control tower for those fucking Church of
Creation asswipes."

CoC and the rest of the Creativity groups were serious crazies based on a
strange, white-power religion and ethos, literally *requiring* the
extermination of all non-whites and sexual deviants. They revered perceived
racial purity in that a single drop of non-white blood was a death
sentence. The Southern Poverty Law Center had a research team whose sole
mission was to identify up and coming Creativity leaders and trace their
genealogy back far enough to find ancestors that were black, Native
American or in some other way "tainted", then broadcast the info all over
the American Redoubt. It had thus become a fairly-leaderless movement, but
a lethal one that counted coup by lives taken. Killing six at the expense
of your own life was a guaranteed ticket to paradise, and the quality of
your personal heaven was measured in corpses a man had left behind.

Red was educated, intelligent, lethal and had a dry wit that was
refreshing. We talked for a long while that evening. He was lifelong
military, raised in the Marine Corp by a father who was both proud and
appalled that his son chose West Point. Red really was a Captain in the
RRC, the ultra-elite recon-in-force arm of the Army Rangers. He was, oddly,
not a lifelong Patriot. He came to the Cause when he was visiting his
father and brother, both high-ranking Patriots, just as It Hit the Fan. It
was join or die, and Red was not the dying type. He retained the Captain
rank, even though he was actually entitled to Patriot Manager Leader title
if he'd wanted it. He was the de facto and de jure head of all Management
operations, equal to Battalion Leaders and likely in the running for
Patriot Commander when the current one died.

We'd finished the meal, him giving me a small portion of his own plate and
encouraging me to polish off the antipasto "since Bobby hated the stuff." I
froze when I heard a noise but Red smiled. "Bobby's back, and he's not
happy." I jumped up and threw the primo packet into the hotbox.

A few moments later, a dark storm cloud entered the hutment pushed ahead of
a fuming Bobby. He came in, grunted, "With your permission, sir," to Red,
threw in a salute and dove into his bunk. I looked at Red who shrugged and
poured us each another shot of rye. I knocked it back and waited until the
gnocchi started to spit. I plated it and set it on the table along with a
setup. I pitched my voice low, soft and neutral, kneeling at the side of
the bunk. "May I serve the Patriot his meal, sir?"

"No." Ah, the glorious sounds of youthful petulance.

"Can I get the Patriot a potable, sir?"

"No!"

"Sir, you are still dressed. May I at least take your uniform, so I can
clean it, sir?"  Bobby heaved a huge, put-upon sigh but stood up, facing
away from me. I turned to Red and handed him a piece of the packet from the
primo and mimed fanning the gnocchi in Bobby's direction. He stifled a
laugh and his eyes sparkled and he started to gently waft the amazing scent
of basil, cream and pancetta across into Bobby's rack as I quickly and
sensuously undid Bobby's clothes. Red and I shared a conspiratorial smile
when we heard Bobby's stomach make a loud growling noise.

When I pulled his undershirt off, I could smell Woman on Bobby's skin, a
smell that intensified when I pulled down his boxers. He turned abruptly
and sat, grabbing the fork and spearing a gnocco that appeared to have
deeply offended him. "Do you KNOW what I had to do? Do you?"

I knelt carefully at his knee, making sure to keep my head low but also
keep my eyes on his whenever he glanced at me. "No, sir. What happened,
sir?"

"I had to fuck a woman, Coosey! It was..." he shuddered and attacked a
particularly-insulting gnocco with enough force that it became two
gnocchi. "You didn't tell me about the smell!" he said accusingly. Red
snorted a laugh and turned it -- one moment too late -- into a cough. This,
surprisingly, did not improve Bobby's mood.

"I'm sorry, sir. After so many months of--" I dropped my voice to purr the
next bit for his ears only "--the scent of my Patriot stud in my nose, I
guess I'd forgotten, sir. Please, sir, punish me for that oversight. I
deserve it for not prepping my Patriot for what was ahead of him." Bobby
snorted and went after the rest of the gnocchi with a will. I risked a
glance at Red who seemed transfixed by the scene.

I turned back to Bobby. "Can I get my Patriot a beer, sir?"  Bobby
grunted. I shot an eyebrow at Red who nodded, so I got two, removing the
pop-top from one the way Bobby preferred. He took a long swig.

"Why did I have to do that? Tell me that!" Red started to speak but I got
there first. I mean, hey, he already chose not to kill me once...

"Because you are a Patriot and a stud and a man of honor, sir. Because you
do your duty, Patriot, and sometimes that duty is not as nice as other
times, sir. Was it... was it worse than Dogging that corporal when you were
twelve, sir?" I heard Red suck in a breath. Bobby had spilled to me on
several nights the horror he'd felt at stabbing the guy that the older men
had already crippled and emasculated. The guy had tried -- but, critically,
failed -- to frag his sergeant. Bobby was one of the newly-pubescent boys
tapped to Dog the former Patriot. It still gave him nightmares.

"YES!" I just stared at him for a moment, carefully
expressionless. "Well... no. But it was still BAD, Coosey!" There was a
plaint in his voice that worried me. I got his secondo and side and served
him. He stabbed about desultorily.

"I will fix this, Patriot. Will you let me?"

"You can't FIX it, Coosey... can you?" That faint hope in his voice was all
I needed. I spread his knees and began to clean the pussy-juice from his
crotch. Oddly, I'd not lost the taste for it. It was pretty nice, even if
not nearly as satisfying as the deep, masculine O'Stallion musk
underneath. He slowly hardened, and I sucked him slowly, lovingly,
carefully as he ate. I waited until I could hear the fork skittering across
the plate and took him deep, using a swallowing pattern that never failed
to get his seed.

He sounded very like a creaking door as he came, shudderingly but not as
thickly or as long as normal. He'd obviously been made to fuck a woman --
or some women -- several times.

I pulled back and looked into his face. "Bobby, sir? May I have some beer."
He grabbed the can and started to hand it to me and I stopped him. I
grinned wickedly up at his confused face. "I'd rather have after you were
done with it, Patriot O'Stallion, sir." I went back in and captured his
deflating cock and heard him whimper just before he started to piss. I
thanked Providence that my Bobby didn't have Red's bladder!

When he was done, he leaned back and I moved up and whispered, "THAT is my
Patriot O'Stallion. Thank you, sir. Thank you, Bobby." He smiled with a
little pout underneath. I think he was still livid that no one agreed with
his assessment of the horrors of the evening. I cleared the remains of the
meal, then tugged on my trousers and locked my web belt. Taking the refuse
and the dishes to a communal wash station in the twilight took a while,
since I didn't actually know where it was and had to loiter a bit until I
saw a low-ranking Patriot at the same chore. By the time I got back to the
hutment, it was full dark, the gibbous moon providing weak light through
the nest of tree limbs above. The camp's air was thick with pipe- and
wood-smoke, overlaid with the lazy but threatening chill of a mountain at
night.

What was merely dark outside was stygian within. I heard Bobby's
I-don't-snore snore coming softly from my left. I was practiced at this,
however, and had mapped the location of the various cupboard-shelves in my
mind relative to the doorway. I was able to return the dishes and
silverware with minimal sounds and only one loud CLINK as I miscalculated
the exact position of the glassware. I jumped hard when Red's voice, very
much like the growl at the back of a dark cave, said, "Walk with me,
Bronco."

I spun and saw a constellation of small cherry-red pinpricks as I caught a
puff of rich, dense pipe-smoke. He moved into the weak moonlight of the
doorway and I could just make out his form. He was wearing trousers and
blouse, pulling softly on what we'd always called a Seafarer -- a pipe with
a little crown of metal to keep the tobacco dry and the ashes safe in the
worst of weather. The intense thrill of fear from his sudden statement from
the invisibility of darkness and his shadowy outline against the only
doorway nearly made me piss out a good portion of what I'd drunk from
Bobby's cock a half-hour before. "Walk with me" was NOT a phrase you wanted
to hear from a Patriot who might still decide to kill you for a dozen very
good, very justified and very Patriotic reasons.

<eof>

THANK YOU to people who volunteered to beta-read this story: Lee, Jack
Peter and Pawl. These are readers who take their own time to improve the
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