Jingle Balls


Max H.

If it's illegal for you to read this story, please move on.

This work is copyrighted by the author.  No reposting is allowed without the author's consent.

In this story the characters don't practice safe sex.  But this is merely a fantasy.  In the world we all live in, safe sex is the only sane way to go.  Please be careful.

This story has nothing to do with Christmas.  It's "Jingle BAlls," please note.  If you're looking for reindeer or the Grinch, you're in the wrong place.

These events took place 30 years ago, in the mid-1970's.  I've kept quiet about what happened all this time.  Things are much more open now, so I feel I can tell you about it,  but for the sake of anonymity I've changed all the names.  Except we all did refer to the lieutenant as "Jingle Balls."  When he wasn't around, of course.

I shouldn't have known about much of this story, but the company clerk usually knows everything that's going on.  And then the captain himself got me involved.  At the time I was a Spec-3, equivalent to a corporal, the company clerk in Headquarters and Headquarters Company of an infantry unit at Fort Riley, Kansas.  Specialist Bob Haskins.  After high school I wanted to get away from school for a while, get some life experience, so to speak.  Since the threat of Viet Nam has passed, I'd decided to go into the Army for a hitch before going to college.  And the Army would help pay my expenses when I got out.  

It all started when we got this new exec, a young first lieutenant.  He'd graduated from OCS at Benning, and he'd had a desk assignment ever since. Then somebody decided he needed to get some real infantry experience.  Of course the US wasn't involved in combat anywhere at the time.  So basically we were defending Kansas from the surrounding states or something. And it worked.  Kansas wasn't invaded during my whole stay there.

Lieutenant Harry Spafford, the new company exec, was strictly a dress-right-dress kind of officer.  Everything had to be according to the book, and the book was the AR's or Army Regulations.  He must have decided to establish his authority from the get-go, because he drove everybody crazy.  He would drop in on the kitchen or the motor pool or almost anywhere, even the day room, and pull surprise inspections.  He just loved handing out gigs.  

His own appearance, gotta give it to him, was always flawless.  He was a blond, blue-eyed country boy, about six-two and on the thin side.  Oh, he was in good shape, as he proved often enough when the men were marching up and down the hills of eastern Kansas with full backpacks or when they were having calisthenics.  He didn't ask the men of the company to do anything he couldn't do better.  But we were the headquarters company.  We'd all been trained as infantrymen, of course. That's what Army basic is about.  But we all had MOS's that said we were chaplain's assistants, drivers, cooks, clerks, and such.  We didn't take too kindly to strenuous exercise or trips to the "field."  

Well, getting back to the lieutenant.  His fatigues were always starched and ironed perfectly.  They looked as if he'd never sat down in them.  His brass gleamed and his boots glistened.  I think that's where the Jingle Balls name came from.

He even hassled me.  One of my jobs was to prepare the company morning report first thing each day, get the captain to sign it, and then hand carry it to the unit personnel office where their morning report clerk checked it over, sent it back if the math didn't check out or there was anything in it that wasn't according to SOP.  I hadn't had one sent back for over a year, since right after I got the job.  I knew the AR's forward and backward and prided myself on doing a good job.  And the captain was happy with my work, as he made a point of telling me once in a while.  We didn't have desktop computers back then.  You did the morning report on a manual typewriter in triplicate, and a lot of it was a matter of putting numbers into very small boxes. It was no fun to have to retype the whole thing if you got something wrong.

JB, as I liked to refer to him, made a point about once a week of showing up while I was working on the morning report and watching over my shoulder.  That didn't so much make me nervous as it pissed me off.  Sometimes he'd tell me I'd done something wrong and I'd have to haul out the book and show him that I was right.  If the top sergeant was in the office he'd be pissed, but he never said anything because he knew I could always prove I was doing the MR properly.

Then the lieutenant took to coming in late in the afternoon and making me stand at attention while he checked my gig line.  (That's the line made by the edge of your uniform blouse and the edge of your trousers fly.  They should line up perfectly.)  But if you've been sitting all day, reaching to another desk to pick up something, you know, the kinds of things you have to do in an office, your shirt's going to get pulled loose.  So the lieutenant made my life miserable for about a week on his later-afternoon forays into the office.  He always did it when the captain wasn't in.  And he never checked MSgt Rivier.  He probably knew that would have been a mistake.

One day he came in, made me stand at attention, and after taking a look at me said, "Corporal, you need to pull some guard duty.  I think this weekend.  Maybe some time alone out by the motor pool will improve your attitude."  I had pulled guard duty once right after I got to Riley from basic.  And it was out by the motor pool, on the fringe of things up on Custer Hill.  I remember standing there with an empty rifle, listening to coyotes howl in the distance, wishing my relief would show up.  Then I was aware that something was coming at me in the darkness, but I couldn't tell what.  It seemed to be coming faster than a man could walk, but wasn't making any noise, like a guy running would.  I was supposed to challenge it and ask for the password.  I nearly pissed my pants before I figured out what it had to be.  A kid from Ohio doesn't see tumbleweeds, so this was my first experience with one.  It blew by before I had a chance to make a fool of myself by asking it to "Halt!"  

I was lucky that soon afterward I was selected as company clerk and made "E.D."  That means exempt from duties like KP and guard duty.  The captain wanted me available whenever he needed me, and he didn't want me showing up for work some morning after having been awake most of the night freezing my balls off in a Kansas night.

The first sergeant was there the day Jingle Balls threatened me with guard duty.  He said, "Lieutenant, sir, this man's ED by orders of the captain."

"Oh, well, we'll just see about that!"  He didn't do an about face, actually, but he turned around smartly and left the office.  After a while the captain got back from wherever he'd been and said, "Oh, Haskins, don't worry about the guard duty.  I've set the lieutenant straight on that.  But maybe it would be a good idea if you checked your gig line two or three times a day."

I grinned and said, "Yes sir!"

Well, to make a long story short, everybody was fed up with the lieutenant.  Oh, he didn't bother me much because I was right there in the office with the First Sergeant, Leon Rivier, a career man, 40 years old, who didn't take any guff from anybody, especially not young, wet-behind-the ears lieutenants.  And the CO, Captain Jack Henderson, was just on the other side of the doorway between his office and ours.  

A word or two about the Captain.  I got a hardon just about every time I looked at him. About 30, he was just under six feet, I'd guess 190 pounds of muscle, with broad shoulders and narrow hips and a great bubble butt. He had black hair, cut GI short like the rest of us, and sapphire blue eyes.  I used to wonder how a guy that old could look so good.  From the vantage point of my fifties, I smile at the nave kid I was then -- when I thought everybody over 25 had one foot in the grave.

Well, anyway, like I said, Jingle Balls was pissing off just about everybody, and the Captain was getting complaints from his NCO's.

*          *          *


This is where I must admit that though all this really happened, I didn't witness a lot of it.  What I'm about to tell you is stuff I learned about in other ways.  Much of it came from the top sergeant, who probably shouldn't have told me.  Later you'll understand why he felt he owed me an explanation.  And I did, after all, keep this a secret for thirty years.

One morning the captain came to the door and said, "Sergeant, come in here a minute."
Once Rivier was inside, the captain told him to close the door and sit down.  Those two had a great working relationship.  They could be RA as hell when they needed to be, but they liked each other and the captain treated the older sergeant with respect.

"Leon, we have a problem."

I can just hear Rivier sighing as he said, "Seems to me we have lots of problems, sir.  Which one did you have in mind?"

"Fucking Spafford, he's the problem.  He's ruining the morale of this unit.  I've suggested that he might want to ease up on the troops a little, but he doesn't seem to get the message.  If he doesn't learn to get the results he wants without alienating every goddam man in the company, I'm going to have to write a piss-poor evaluation on him.  And that'll fuck up his career."

"I see, sir, but "

Captain Henderson held up his hand.  "Yeah, I know what you're gonna say.  But he has the potential to be a good officer, and I don't want to write that negative evaluation if I don't really have to."

He paused and looked at MSgt. Rivier.

When the first sergeant didn't respond, he continued.  "I think I know just what he needs.  He has that special quality you and I understand."  The captain looked at his ranking NCO to see if he did understand.

Rivier grinned.  "Oh, you think so, sir?  I wouldn't have guessed."

"Tsk tsk, First Sergeant!  I'm disappointed in you," the Captain said, grinning.  "I think this young officer needs some attitude adjustment, don't you?"

"Oh, but yes, Captain!"

"Can you arrange that?  Are your friends still around, the ones who took care of that earlier problem we had with the difficult motor pool sergeant?"

"Yes, sir!  They're all still here on post and would enjoy helping us out, I'm sure."

The Captain stood.  "Thanks, Leon.  I mustn't know anything about this, as you realize.  Deniability is essential.  And this is a little different because it involves an officer.  But I'm sure you and your buddies can manage it."

MSgt Rivier stood and smiled at his company commander.  "I'll talk to the guys, sir, and I'll let you know when it's arranged, okay?"

"Thanks, Leon."

A week or so later, Lt. Spafford was walking down a street in Manhattan, the university town near the post.  Since it was the weekend, he could have been wearing civvies, but he had chosen to wear his khakis.  A rusty van pulled up to the curb beside him.  Three men jumped out.  A rag was pressed to his face, and he crumpled into the arms of the men.  He was hustled into the back of the van.  No one had witnessed the abduction.

The lieutenant was taken to a house an hour away in Topeka where he was dumped on the floor of a basement rec room.  When he started to wake up, more of the stuff on the rag, chloroform I'm guessing, was applied to his face.  His tie was loosened, his collar unbuttoned, his belt unbuckled, and his shoes and socks removed.  He was kept asleep until morning.

When he woke up he looked pretty disheveled, and his eyes were bloodshot from the chemical on the cloth which had been pressed to his face several times overnight. Obviously disoriented, he looked around, then stood, though he was pretty shaky on his pins.  He was temporarily blinded by a flash.  One of his captors had just taken his picture.  Spafford didn't realize it, but he had a morning woodie, which showed clearly in the picture.  

Finding himself with a terrible headache in a strange place and confronted by three burly strangers, he demanded to know what was going on.  He was told he'd be their "guest" for the weekend.  He argued about that for a few minutes, but then nature intervened.  He told the older men he had to piss.  It was morning, after all, and he hadn't had a chance to relieve himself since he'd left the BOQ the previous afternoon.

"Go right ahead, lieutenant.  Piss your pants."

He argued about that, angrily.  But the four strangers seemed willing to wait, and his need was great.  Finally, he couldn't help it, so he let go.  

I should remind you here that in those days there were no picture phones or digital cameras, no video cameras either.  But one of the men had a Polaroid camera and apparently an endless supply of film packs.  (Paid for by Captain Henderson, though he never saw the four captors.  MSgt. Rivier was the go-between.  The captors were all NCO buddies of his, guys he played poker with, who were assigned to other units on the base.)

So several pictures were taken of the growing dark spot on the front and down the legs of his khakis.  He found himself standing in piss-soaked trousers in a puddle of his own making.  

He started to bluster about what would happen when the Army found out he'd been abducted and treated in this shameful way.

"Seems to me, lieutenant, that you just got drunk and didn't get to the john in time to get rid of all that beer.  Have a look at these pictures."

I can only imagine how he felt when he saw the Polaroids, but I've seen the pics, and that's just what it looked like.

"So you can return to duty Monday morning and life will go on, or you can fail to cooperate and these pictures will be in the hands of your CO on Monday morning.  What's it gonna be?"

Spafford grumbled, or so I was told, but asked what they wanted him to do.

He was made to strip naked.  His tee shirt and the tail of his outer shirt had also absorbed some piss.  They made him wipe up the piss off the floor with his jockey shorts and then suck on them.  Of course this process was captured by the Polaroid.

One of the guys took all the lieutenant's clothes away, put them in a washer and later in a dryer.  The lieutenant would have clean but very wrinkled clothes to wear when he was returned to base.

Someone said, pretending to be concerned, that Spafford must be hungry, since he'd missed supper the previous evening and hadn't had any breakfast.  The others agreed they should remedy that.  Spafford was forced to his knees.  Then someone held his nose so that he had to open his mouth to breathe.  As soon as he did, a cock was shoved in it and he was face fucked while the others took turns explaining to him how to give a proper blow job.

One of the pictures showed him sucking a black cock.  Another showed him sucking a white cock.  There was also a good close-up showing his face covered with what must have been the cum of all four of MSgt Rivier's friends.

Then they stood him up, fastened his ankles together with duct tape, made him put his hands together behind his back and taped his wrists together.  Pushed over with his ass exposed, he then had a vibrating butt plug shoved up his ass.  It had been lubed because, as one of them remarked, he needed to see how much he could enjoy the experience.  They left him sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees up, with the vibrator running on its slowest setting while they went upstairs and had breakfast.

When they'd finished they came back downstairs and played pool for an hour or so. Their captive had a big woodie and was wiggling his ass around.  He had a desperate, almost wild look on his face.  They taunted him by saying he obviously liked to have his ass played with and must be a fag.  He responded angrily, intemperately, so the four men put away their pool equipment and laid a ping pong table top over the pool table.  Spafford was helped to stand, and the duct tape was removed. Then he was bent over the table.  His wrists were connected by ropes to the legs of the table, leaving his legs and ass free.

He yelled when the butt plug was pulled quickly from his ass.

"From what we hear, lieutenant, you think you're the cock of the walk up on Custer Hill.  What everybody else thinks is that you're just another chickenshit with shiny new bars.  And what we think is that you're really just a pussy boy, a slut.  And to prove it, you're going to see just what a bitch you are before you get back to the BOQ."

The guy who was speaking stuck a well-lubed finger up the lieutenant's butt and began to work it around.

Spafford responded at first with a stream of invective, telling them they'd be arrested and if they were military, as he'd guessed they were, they'd be court-martialed.   When the big finger hit his prostate, he had to bite his lip not to reveal how good it felt. Soon he was getting a prostate massage and bit his lip so hard it bled.  One of the men noticed after a while that, though he wasn't saying anything, the lieutenant, who was by now wiggling his ass around, had tears running down his cheeks.

"Gotta give you credit, chickenshit, you're trying your damndest not to show how much you like having your pussy played with."

When he was opened up, the four men fucked him in turn.  Sarge said they weren't particularly rough with him, or claimed not to be.  They didn't want to hurt him as much as humiliate him.  And maybe make him like taking it up the ass.

And that's the way it went for the entire weekend.  They fed him and gave him plenty to drink.  But they kept him busy sucking them and getting fucked the whole time.  Oh, and there were shots of his faced buried in a hairy white ass and a smooth black one.  

I saw pictures of Spafford getting fucked in every position.  His face was clear in all of them, but you couldn't see the faces of the guys who were topping him.  And there were shots of him rimming a hairy white ass and a smooth black one as well.

Late Sunday he was put back into his clean but rumpled uniform, blindfolded, and taken back to Riley.  

Fort Riley is an "open post," which means there were no gates, no MP's guarding the entrances.  In fact, the main highway between Manhattan and Junction City runs directly through the base.  So, late Sunday night a car drove up in front of the BOQ and Lt. Spafford was allowed to get out.  He'd been told to say nothing of any of this or the Polaroids would land on Captain Henderson's desk the next morning.  Oh, and apparently he'd been told that he needed to lighten up with the troops, or he'd incur the same penalty again.


*          *          *

Things were better for two or three weeks.  The company was buzzing about the sudden change in exec's behavior.  He never bothered me after that, and when he was on his way into or out of the CO's office, he seemed to be trying to be pleasant.  As time wore on, however, the complaints began again.  Lt. Spafford was reverting to the way he'd been before.  Later MSgt Rivier told me he'd speculated that the lieutenant figured the guys who'd kidnapped him that weekend were just having their jollies and were holding the Polaroids for their own protection.  

One morning, maybe six weeks after the weekend in question, the first sergeant was at his desk and I was at mine.  The CO came to the door and said, "Lieutenant Spafford's on his way over here.  Send him right in when he gets here.  And don't either of you go away."

"Yes, sir!" we said in unison.

A few minutes later Spafford came into the office.

"What's the matter with the Captain?" he asked Rivier.  "He sounded pissed."

The top sergeant fooled me when he said, "I really don't know, sir."

You have to remember, at that point I didn't know a thing about the lieutenant's rough weekend in Topeka.  I just thought the captain had had enough of the exec's chickenshit carrying on and was about to ream out his ass.  Little did I know.

Rivier seemed to be listening, trying to hear what was going on in the captain's office, so I quit typing the letter I was working on and listened, too.  Instead of telling me to get back to work, he looked at me and grinned.  We could hear their voices, but I couldn't make out anything they were saying.  At least not until I heard Spafford say "WHAT?"

Then the captain said something else.  After that there didn't seem to be any more discussion.  It was so quiet in there I wondered what was going on.

A few minutes later the phone on Rivier's desk rang.  Outside calls came to me first, so this had to be the captain.  It was.  The first sergeant listened for a moment and then said, "Yes, sir."  He looked at me with a puzzled expression.  "He wants you to go into the office.  I'll be in, too, in just a minute."

"Why me?" I asked.

"Don't ask questions, corporal.  Just get your ass in there."  As it turned out, it wasn't my ass the captain wanted.  Well, not entirely.

When I knocked, the captain said to come in.  I couldn't believe the sight before me when I opened the door and stepped in. Naked except for his black socks and shoes, the lieutenant was lying across the captain's desk with his ass toward the door.  All around and peeking out from underneath the lieutenant were at least a couple of dozen Polaroid pictures.  Since at the time I knew nothing about Spafford's "weekend in Topeka," I was really puzzled.

I took another step into the room and closed the door behind me, instantly hard.  My briefs didn't do much to keep my dick from tenting my fatigue pants.

"Corporal Haskins, as you can see, we have a situation here.  A situation that never happened.  You understand?"

"Yes, sir, I think so."

"Now, Haskins, the lieutenant has a problem.  A problem I think you'd like to help him with.  If I'm wrong, say so, and you can go back to your desk."


"Come on, boy!  This man needs to be fucked.  I thought you might like to oblige.  Perhaps I was mistaken about you."  He looked at my protuberance.  "But I don't think so."

"Whatever you want me to do, sir."

"Dammit, corporal, this isn't an order.  Do you want to fuck this man or not?"

"But, sir, the Army doesn't condone homosexuality.  And he's an officer!"

"Corporal Haskins, I'm becoming impatient.  What the Army doesn't know won't hurt it.  The lieutenant here will do what is expected of him.  The only question is whether you will fuck him without making a problem about it later."

I gulped.  Here was a fantasy about to come true.  "Yes, sir, I'll be happy to, sir."

The sternness left the captain's face and he smiled.  "Very well, then, corporal.  Strip."

I had thought maybe I could just drop my pants, but if the captain wanted . . . .  I had to take my combat boots off to get my pants off, so it took a couple of minutes.  Soon, though, I was even more naked than the lieutenant.

I gulped again.  This was all, well, er, highly irregular.  I was putting a lot of faith in the captain.  I wished for a moment that he and I were about to have sex, but the lieutenant was pretty hunky, and I knew I'd like to fuck the hell out of him just because he was such a prick.

"Here, Haskins, you'll need this.  You don't want to dry fuck him."

He tossed me a bottle of skin lotion.  As aroused and tense as I was because of the situation in which I found myself, I still had time to wonder what the captain knew about dry fucking some guy.  That would fuel my fantasies later.  Right then I had a job to do.  I smeared my throbbing cock with the lotion.  Then I smeared some around the lieutenant's crack.  That's when I noticed that he was blushing all over.  Underneath all the bluster, Spafford was just a big, blond country boy.  And his butt looked incredibly inviting.

When I shoved some of the lotion up his hole, he whimpered.  Not the reaction I'd expected.  First Lieutenant Harry Spafford wasn't going to mind being fucked.  Imagine that!  I remember wondering why, if he was queer, he had to be such an asshole. And then it was clear.  He wasn't just trying to be the best officer he could be, he was trying to cover up the fact that he was as much a homo as I was.  And Captain Henderson, too?

Yup, the captain, too.  He took a position with his back to the window, legs spread, hands behind his back, not so much in the "at ease" position as like he was holding a riding crop behind his back.  And there was a delicious bulge in his fatigues.

So I was about to fuck the lieutenant because the captain wanted me to.  How could I not perform that duty to the best of my ability?  

I finger fucked Spafford for a while as he moaned.  

"Remember, Lieutenant Spafford," the captain said in a stern voice, "you are about to be fucked by a lowly corporal.  You need to remember the interdependence we have in the Army.  We are a team!  You have a responsibility to those under your command.  You must care for them and help them be the best soldiers they can be.  You have forgotten that.  I hope being fucked by Haskins here will provide you with a lasting memory."

Captain Henderson looked at me and grinned.  "No offense, Haskins."

"None taken, sir," I said.  I withdrew my fingers and put the head of my drooling, throbbing cock against the lieutenant's pucker.  It wasn't as tight as I had expected, and when I pushed, Little Bob slipped right in.  Jingle Balls was no anal virgin! Jingle Balls the chickenshit, the martinet of the company had been fucked.  I was momentarily disappointed as fantasies of popping his cherry faded.

Okay, he'd been fucked before.  I was still going to fulfill a fantasy fucking an officer have a good time, please my CO, and give the Harry what he obviously wanted, all in one bang.  

I was lost in the pleasure of sliding my happy cock in and out of the lieutenant's asshole when I was vaguely aware that the office door opened and closed.

"There's a vacant hole, Leon," the captain said.  

I kept plunging in and out.  Spafford continued to moan and push his butt back to meet my strokes.  And suddenly I felt something cold in my ass crack.  The top sergeant was applying lotion to my ass.  Could it get any better than that?  I expected to wake up any minute.

So there we were, my cock in the lieutenant's ass, the first sergeant's big throbber in mine.  We banged away.  Surprisingly, given how excited I was, Spafford was the first to cum.  Then it was my turn, but the sergeant kept his arms around my chest until he dumped a big load up my ass.  I collapsed on the lieutenant and Rivier collapsed on me.

"Very good, gentlemen," the captain said, smiling as if he was satisfied with what he'd just witnessed.  "It's time to gather up your clothes and get dressed.  "Leon, is the outer door locked?"

"Yes, sir!"  the sergeant said.

"Okay, you and Haskins go out there and get into uniform.  Don't open the outer door until the company executive officer has left."

"Yes, sir!" we both said.

Obviously the captain had confronted him with the Polaroids from the Topeka weekend.  And because the lieutenant knew the CO had them, he wasn't about to cause any more trouble for any body.

A few minutes later the lieutenant, crisp as ever, left the office without looking at either Rivier or me as we sat at our desks trying not to smirk.

After that, though, Lieutenant Spafford walked the perfect line between authority and humanity, if I can put it that way.  He never patronized us or condescended to us because we were enlisted men, but he was friendly when he came into the office. He'd ask about the first sergeant's family or about my plans after I got out.  The rest of the company couldn't understand what had happened to bring about such a change.  But no one was complaining.

I've often wondered what Harry Spafford did to satisfy that itch.  You know the one.  To get fucked.  Leon Rivier steadfastly denies that he knows.  I've always wondered, though.  Maybe he put the lieutenant in touch with the four NCO's who took him to Topeka.  Or, you don't suppose. . . . Could it be?  Nah.  Not Harry and the captain.

If you'd like to email me, please do:  <lilperv76 (at) yahoo (dot) com>.  Please be sure to put the name of the story in the subject line so I'll know it isn't spam. Thanks.  --Max