Date: Thu, 29 Dec 2016 11:48:09 +0000 (GMT)
From: "rampage938@btinternet.com" <rampage938@btinternet.com>
Subject: ROUGH, HARD 'N' DIRTY 2: GETTIN' 'EM FIZZIN'!

05.30 hours. J4193187 Corporal Elldon Rimmer reporting for duty, Sir! I
have been up for an hour and have shaved, showered, dressed and am now
enjoying a wake-up mug of 'herbal' tea. I will soon have to get those lazy
tykes next door out of their wanking pits and get 'em fizzin'. My first
morning at my latest Air Force base means that those sleeping innocent
babes in the barrack room next to my bunk will not know me. By 06.00 hours
they will, believe me!

On promotion to the substantive rank of corporal I have been posted to an
operational squadron as Disciplinary NCO and I arrived yesterday. Station
Warrant Officer Walter Samson, the most senior NCO on the staff, is three
ranks above me. He gave me his introductory chat and then escorted me to
the squadron's barrack block I was to be in charge of. My principal
responsibility will be to work in the Squadron HQ, I have a subsidiary duty
which is to make sure the 40 airmen living in the barrack room keep it,
their kit and themselves clean and tidy. No dust bunnies beneath their
beds, no stained underpants or gym kit on display, foreskins and arseholes
to be kept clean enough to be sucked and eaten out by me at any time. My
job is to inspect everything!

Over a cup of tea in an unoccupied office on the edge of the airfield,
Warrant Officer Samson confided to me that this particular barracks, known
as Harrier Block, has given the Squadron Commander nightmares. More
seriously, it has acquired bad odour with the Commanding Officer (CO)
because of the parlous state it has fallen into through lack of
discipline. This is where I come in. Samson and the Station Adjutant (the
CO's aide-de-camp in all but name) had discussed the problem before I
arrived and reasoned that the new junior NCO might well have some fresh
ideas and methods to bring about badly needed changes to Harrier Block. I
had recently completed a course in discipline for newly promoted NCOs under
the tender mercies of the Air Force Police at their HQ. Another factor had
also entered their calculations: I am an unknown element to the men who
will be under my care and who I will be responsible for. "Don't worry,
Sir," I reassured Samson, "I have picked up a number of techniques for
dealing with types like them. Not all, though, are what you might call
'orthodox'." I had paused but he said nothing.

If he had been able to read my mind at that point, WO Samson would probably
have gone ape-shit. I had a mental picture from the course I had been on
(it is in my mind even as I write). A naked, beefy arsed, rugby playing Air
Force policeman had beeen lashed face down to a wooden bench, his taut
muscular buttocks glowing like red hot coals where he had been soundly
thrashed with a thick leather belt wielded by the Instructor. It was all
part of a demonstration of certain 'unauthorised' methods of correction,
most of them dating back to Naval practices on board warships in the 18th
Century. However, provided no tell-tale cuts or bruises are evident,
nothing is ever said or done. After all, 'Corporal Punishment' has been
serving the armed forces of many nations for two or three hundred years and
is not about to receive his discharge papers just yet. Anyway, back to what
I was saying. That corporal had volunteered to play the role of the
'offender': the Air Force police sergeant demonstrating the technique had
really laid into him. He was fiendishly efficient, causing the volunteer
excruciating pain, but leaving no visible marks. Even as I think about it,
my cock is doing its best to point towards the stars! Yes, WO Samson, I
learnt my lessons well and have acquired one or two unorthodox methods all
right!

Interview over, I dumped my bags and bedding in my bunk in the barrack
block and quietly set about having a good look round. All the airmen were
out on duty so I could pry and ferret without fear of interruption. What I
found disgusted me: if these men, none of whom was over 28, could live like
this, what sort of homes did they come from? I could see some interesting
days and weeks ahead: I was determined that Harrier Block was not going to
be bottom of the league again - not whilst I was in charge. There would not
be many nights spent drinking beer in the Airmen's Club (known as the
NAAFI) or chasing the few WRAF girls on the base for this lot, I mused. At
least, not for some time to come. During my quiet look round, I also
discovered that the other wing of Harrier Block was seemingly
unoccupied. From the look of the place, no one had been in there for some
time. Dust coated every possible surface; the toilets were stained and
smelt foul; the baths and shower stalls had not seen Ajax since the Trojan
War! To my satisfaction I discovered that the key to my bunk worked the
lock of the other NCO's bunk. That discovery could be very useful, I
thought, as a little plan was beginning to hatch in my mind. I also
discovered the power to that wing had been turned off somewhere. That could
also be a bonus and I could always make it my business to discover where
the master switch was.

Reconnaissance over I made up my bed and stashed my gear away. I quietly
left the barracks and went over to the Junior NCO's Club, where I stayed
out of the way until an hour before Lights Out. Whilst there, I made it a
point to introduce myself to some of the other corporals and, by the simple
expedient of buying a few rounds, keeping my mouth shut and my ears open,
learnt quite a bit about the major personalities and life on the base. I
casually mentioned to a few of them that I was to be in charge of Harrier
Block.

"Christ, mate!" said one old hand, "you get that lot under yer boot
sharpish or they'll 'ave yer balls off and put 'em on toast fer breakfast!"

"That block is poison," another cheery soul chimed in, "many a good bloke
'as gorn dahn the river 'cos of that shower!" There were many other such
words of encouragement. I said to myself, "You bet I'm gonna get on top of
'em, but maybe not in the way you lot think. At least, the more attractive
ones, that is."

As the hands of the big electric clock on the wall behind the bar crept
towards 21.30 hours, I made my excuses that having travelled some distance
to get there I was feeling a tad tired and slipped away. It needed another
half-hour to go before Lights Out and I could be reasonably certain the men
would be far too busy to notice me slipping into my bunk. I'd learnt,
incidentally, that the NCO's bunk I was now occupying had been empty for
some time prior to my arrival, so my presence would be all the more
unexpected - and unpleasant for some! I did not put the main light on as I
did not want any latecomers straying along the corridor to take a piss and
notice a light on in the room, thereby giving the game away. I had with me
a large Air Force issue police flashlight, the beam of which I could adjust
down to a narrow, pencil slim arrow of light. Undressing, I took loving
care of my best friend, stroking and gently caressing him until he was
half-awake. I heard faint noises from the barrack room as its inhabitants
made ready for sleep. Two late arrivals came along the corridor and as they
passed my bunk I heard one of them say, "'ere, Mike, you 'eard anyfink
'baht a new corp comin' 'ere?"

"Nah, mate," came the sleepy reply, "there 'ave bin no signs of anyone
comin' 'ere. Even if 'e did, we'd show 'im, eh?"

"Too fuckin' right, mate. Don't want no fuckin' two-striper fuckin' messin'
abaht wiv us!"

Their voices faded as they went into the barrack room. So, there had been
rumours, had there? From the sound of things they had had their own way far
too long. As I mused about the situation, working out a little surprise or
three for the morning, the Tannoy high up on the wall in the corridor had
crackled into life: "Lights Out! Lights Out!"

I did not get into bed straight away but lit a cigarette and sat in the
armchair which I had repositioned close to the sash window. I raised the
lower frame and the gentle night breeze had a soothing effect on my mind. I
sat smoking and pondered the situation I had walked into. First off, I
would have to get tough with some of these guys: hard but fair, as the
Instructor on the course said. Fuck that namby-pamby rubbish, with me it
will be all hard. I would quickly spot the likely lads, those who needed a
good thrashing or buggering to sort them out. There were usually two or
three who were all too ready and eager to spread their arse cheeks. They
figured that if they let me bugger them, they could get on my good side. I
would eagerly take all they offered but they would soon learn I did not
have a 'good' side, only a mean one. A big, burly Air Force sergeant had
buggered my 'good' side out of me less than two months ago!

Nevertheless, after an untroubled refreshing sleep here I am the following
morning. I rouse myself from my review of yesterday's events and look at
the small travelling clock on my bedside locker. It shows three minutes to
six. The 'herbs' in my tea are working the oracle, as usual: I am horny,
hot - and mean. Standing in front of the full length mirror fitted to the
inside of my bunk door, my reflection gazes back at me as I check my
appearance thoroughly. Hair cropped and carefully brushed; closely shaven;
moustache neatly trimmed; shirt crisp and clean; tie straight, the knot the
regulation size; uniform jacket pressed, the corporal's chevrons on the
sleeves gleamingly clean; brass buttons shining; cap badge equally as
bright; trousers with knife edge creases; parade boots so highly polished
they could have been used as shaving mirrors. I have even polished the
metal studs on the heels and soles! "Mmmm! You look good enough to shag,
feller me lad!" It is time to go. I square my shoulders, pick up a short
piece of four-by-two I had found the previous afternoon and step out into
the corridor, closing the door of my bunk quietly behind me, and prepare to
create mayhem.

I peer through one of the small panes of glass let into the double doors
leading into the barrack room. The half-light of early morning filters
through drawn curtains; all I can see are forty shapeless humps beneath the
bedclothes on each bed. Some are lying on their backs, some on their
bellies, some in indescribable positions. I also notice underwear and
socks, cigarette butts, a couple of newspapers and a magazine carelessly
discarded and scattered on the floor. Hands on the brass door handles
(which could also do with an application of Brasso and some vigorous
rubbing), I wait for the tinny scratching of the Tannoy to labour into
life, followed by an ancient recording of the traditional bugle call of
Reveille. I push through the double doors, making sure they crash against
the wall, throw the main light switches and make as much noise as I can. I
march straight down the centre of the room, randomly banging on the metal
bed frames with the four-by-two, putting my boots down hard to add to the
noise. As I advance, my nostrils are assailed by a disgusting odour
compounded of soiled underpants, socks which must have been worn
continuously for days, stale beery fumes, and the remnants of someone's
last fart. Some of the humps begin to move, sluggishly; from others tousled
heads and sleepy eyes peer over the bedclothes.

"WAKEY!! WAAAAA-KEY!!!" I bellow. Sleepy, grumbling voices curse.

"Wha' the fuck. . ."

"Who in 'ell's makin' all the row?"

"'ere, calm it dahn a bit, mate!" I have now reached the furthest end of
the room. The last voice has come from a bed to my right. I reach out with
the piece of four-by-two and give the end of that bed a couple of extra
hard blows. The sound of wood on metal rings out.

"You! Airman! Out of that stinking wanking pit! NOW!!" The bedclothes stir
and the bed's occupant sits up, swinging his legs over the side. "I said
OUT - O-U-T! Stand to attention when an NCO is addressing you, airman!" The
figure clambers to its feet, blinking owlishly at me. It lumbers into what
it must imagine approximates the correct position when standing to
attention. I make a mental note he will soon have to learn differently! The
only thing about him standing stiff and proud is his cock.

"Cor blimey, mate, no need to make such a fuckin' bloody row!"

"Get this, airman, and get it good. I am no 'mate' of yours nor am I ever
likely to be!"

"Christ! Sorry, Corp!"

I glare at him unflinchingly. Their education starts here. The man shifts
his gaze away from mine. I turn my attention back to the rest of the men,
who are slowly - far too slowly for me - getting out of bed. They look
surprised, a little bewildered. However, enlightenment is at hand. I roar
out the next command: "Right, you idle, good for nothing lazy lot of
fucking wankers! Get your hands off cocks and on with socks. Stand by your
beds! MOVE IT!" I give them a few seconds to shuffle into
position. "Parade! Att-en-shun!" It is beginning to filter into some of the
less sleep befogged brains that this is for real. It is definitely not some
collective nightmare or hallucination.

"First things first. Starting with the two top beds, every alternate window
on both sides of this stinking hole will be opened. MOVE!" Still not
realising this is really happening, they start opening the large sash
windows. Most of the men are stark naked and the cool, fresh morning breeze
soon has them scurrying about more alertly, like a disturbed ants nest. I
wait until the last two windows are open and the men have returned to their
former positions.

"Ah! That is better. We can now all breathe some of God's good, fresh air,
not the foul sewer stench that greeted me when I came in just now. Stand
easy!" The men, more awake now, relax but remain where they stand, waiting
to see what might happen next. One or two look resentful, a few sullen and
suspicious, but no one speaks. I allow the silence to continue for a moment
or two longer.

"Now come the introductions. I am Corporal Elldon Hawke. I arrived here at
this base yesterday and, yes, in case there's any doubt in anyone's mind, I
am in charge here. I shall be occupying the NCO's bunk at the other end of
the corridor, which is where you can call on me if you have any kind of
personal or professional problem. For all other matters, I shall be your
friendly, live-in Stephen King nightmare." I paused to allow the
significance of that to sink in. "None of you know anything about me - but
I promise you, you soon will. I, on the other hand, know just what a lazy,
idle, disgusting lot you are. Who is senior man here?"

"Corporal!" A voice cuts sharply through the room and a tall, blond haired
man brings himself smartly to attention. He occupies a bed roughly halfway
down the room. I march over to where he stands. I gaze at him intently. He
must be about 22 or 23. He is a good looker, well hung, pert tight arse,
keeps himself fit. From the sharp way he has responded to my question, he
is alert, aware of what is going on. I will keep him on for a while, as
senior man; he might prove to be a potential ally. I must remember to check
his Service record sometime.

"Your last three, rank, and name, airman!"

"846 Junior Technician Taylor, Corporal!" Now it is my turn to be taken
aback. It is most unusual for technician ranks to have any kind of
disciplinary responsibilities. Things must be bad if the squadron have had
to resort to such a measure. However, we will see.

"He's known to us as Needles, corp." A voice sounding as if it had been
liberally greased with sludge from a filthy engine filter comes from behind
me. I swing round.

"Who said that?"

"I did, corp." I take an instant dislike to this man. Short in stature, his
lank greasy hair could do with some nimble scissor work and an introduction
to a shampoo bottle. He obviously needs to visit the shower room more
frequently and a spell in the gym might not come amiss, either. Even with
the cool morning air blowing through the room, he has a faint film of oily
sweat on his skin.

"And who are you?" I enquire, politely.

"Oh, I'm Nobby Clark, corp."

"I see, Clark. And pray tell me," I continue, even more politely, "just
who's air force do you FUCKING WELL THINK YOU ARE IN?" I have put the
hardness back into my voice. Clark stands silent, in his astonishment
opening and closing his mouth as if he was a goldfish that had fallen out
of its bowl and was desperately looking for water.

"Listen to me, all of you as well as Clark here, and listen well. As far as
I am aware, there is no such rank as 'Corp' in today's Air Force. Until
there is, you will address me as 'Corporal' at all times. If you forget,
the result will be a charge of insubordination. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?"
Murmurs of "Yes, corporal" steal through the somewhat crestfallen bunch of
men in front of me. "Junior Technician Taylor," I turn back to face him,
"are any of these men required for early duties this morning?"

"Not today, corporal. There's no early flying scheduled this week."

"In that case, I want every man to wash, shave and get dressed in number
twos. You are then to parade outside, under Junior Technician Taylor's
supervision. I shall give us all a beneficial, brisk march to the Mess for
breakfast. Afterwards, we will march back here. You will all be on parade,
outside this block, at 06.45 hours. This will be our routine for the rest
of this week. Parade! Attention!" The suddenness of the order momentarily
stuns them, but they quickly sort themselves out. "That was a bloody
shambles! We will do it again. Paaa-rade! Wait for it, wait for it!
AT-TEN-SHUN!" I give up at that point, there will be plenty of other
opportunities to knock some kind of coordination into them. "Paaa-rade! To
your duties, dismiss! Junior Technician Taylor, I need a complete list of
the names of all the men in this room. Bring it to me down at the squadron
office later this morning, please."

I walk silently through the room until I reach the double doors. The men
behind me are collecting their sponge bags and towels. I pause, turn round,
and say as if it were an unimportant afterthought, "Oh, by the way men, I
intend holding a full kit inspection tomorrow at 19.30 hours. I shall
expect this barracks to be so clean and tidy the Commanding Officer
wouldn't recognise it if he walked in. I want to see your uniforms and kit
up to standard. Woe betide anyone - I repeat, anyone - whose kit is
deficient, dirty, or defaced. I shall post a notice on the board outside to
this effect later in the day." I push through the double doors, leaving a
stunned silence in my wake.

I had an argument with Warrant Officer Samson today. He seems to think I am
going a too far in ordering a full kit inspection off my own bat. Normally,
it would have to be agreed with the Squadron Adjutant, then taken up to
Station Headquarters and discussed with the Station Warrant Officer, the
Station Adjutant and, finally, the CO. However, I have a couple of let
outs. First, there is nothing actually in writing anywhere forbidding an
NCO - junior or senior - to order a kit inspection for the men under his
control. Secondly, I remind Samson that I am there to put the fear of God
into the occupants of Harrier Block, and that I intend to do by any means I
can, fair or foul. Eventually, he sees my reasoning. He even begins to get
enthusiastic about the notion, until I remind him this is my idea and that
I will take any kudos - or brickbats - that are going.

"Alright, corporal," he says, eventually, "you do what you think you
should, but I'll have to mention this to the Station Adjutant just in
case. I promise I will explain it all to him, but if something went wrong -
well, I don't have to spell it out to you, do I?"

"No, Sir, you don't." I manage to suppress my delight at having carte
blanche to do whatever I like down at the barrack block. "Just make sure
that the Adj and the SWO know it is entirely an internal matter between me
and the men in that barrack block. If I want them to eat shit at nine
o'clock at night, they will do just that or face the consequences." I
paused, deliberately lengthening the silence. "Believe me, Sir, my
consequences can be terrible!"

As it turned out, they made a reasonable fist of the inspection. They had
obviously made an effort to clean the barrack room and the ablutions,
although the WCs and urinals were still disgusting. I used Taylor as my
number two, giving him a clipboard with a stack of paper attached to
it. "Right, Junior Technician Taylor. You know all these men, who they are,
where they work and who is in charge of them whilst on duty. You will
follow me round and note down every observation I make. You will record the
rank, name and last three of each man as I come to his bed-space. You will
also record any instructions or orders I give so that there can be no
argument later." I turn and face the men lined up beside their beds,
standing rigidly to attention. They look somewhat cleaner, smarter and more
like military men than they had at six o'clock yesterday morning!

"Do you all understand?"

"Yes, corporal!" The reply comes as if from one voice, loud and clear. They
are learning quickly. "Good. I shall now begin the inspection. Your space
first, I think, Taylor." As I hoped and expected he would Taylor had made a
real effort. The linoleum around and under his bed gleamed.  His small
bedside mat had very recently seen the business end of a vacuum
cleaner. The top of his bedside locker shone, free from clutter. The only
thing on it, apart from the small issue reading lamp, was a leather frame
containing a black and white photo of a middle-aged man and woman. I picked
it up and looked at it.

"Your mother and father, Taylor?" I spoke quietly, using a normal tone of
voice.

"Yes, corporal."

I replaced the photograph carefully, making sure I did not scratch the
surface of his locker top. I turned my attention to the window behind the
head of his bed. I shook the curtains and a little dust flew out from the
folds. "Note. Curtains to be cleaned." Then I noticed the corners of the
panes of glass in the window. Smears were visible which he had been unable
to reach. I said nothing but ran my finger along the sash. It came away
with the faintest traces of dirt. "Right, Taylor. These windows are
filthy. Note. Windows and frames to be cleaned and inspected tomorrow
morning half an hour after Reveille. Understand?" I looked directly at
him. He was disconcerted, nonplussed that I had pulled him up in front of
the men. I did not think he believed me. I showed him the corners of the
window panes and the dirt on the sash. "Now do you understand why I cannot
make exceptions?"

"Yes, corporal."

And so it went on until every man's bed-space and laid out kit, open locker
and uniforms had been inspected minutely. At the end, Taylor had filled
almost forty sheets of paper with notes. I positioned myself in the middle
of the barrack room and said, "Right, everyone, gather round." They all
moved into a semi-circle in front of Taylor and I. "Compared to what I
found here yesterday morning, not bad. But NOT GOOD ENOUGH. I shall deal
with the inspection in three parts: first, the ablutions. Second, this
room, and third, your kit. Those ablutions are in a disgusting state. I
shall inspect them every morning, Saturday and Sunday included, for the
next four weeks. At the end of that time, I want to be able to eat my
dinner off that floor - and don't think for one moment that is just idle
chatter. I will leave it to Junior Technician Taylor to organise a cleaning
roster. I suggest it might be as well to clean the WCs, urinals and shower
stalls twice a day, but I will leave that decision to you. Remember: I am
generously giving you all four weeks to bring these barracks up to
something approaching a reasonable standard of cleanliness. The next
Station Commander's Inspection is five weeks from today and I do not want
Harrier Block to be bottom of the league EVER AGAIN!"

Leaving no room for arguments to start up, I gave them chapter and verse
about all the faults I had discovered in the barrack room: dust under beds,
lockers not tidy and locker tops stained where a hot mug of tea had been
carelessly put down or hot liquid had been spilt, extra effort required on
some of the bed-spaces to polish the linoleum, windows and window frames to
be cleaned. A thousand and one things that were not good enough - as well
as a few extra ones I threw in just for laughs. Then I started on the men's
kit: I got very personal and mentioned in gruesome detail the dirty
underwear, the unwashed and stained sports kit and casually mentioned the
shorts I had found with dried spunk stains caking them, the missing items
not replaced. It took me more than an hour to exhaust my list of
complaints. I left them with these words: "Right. Now you all know why I
did not like what I saw here yesterday. You have a chance to put things
right. I shall inspect the barrack room again one week from today. This
order in no way countermands my instructions regarding the ablutions. Has
anyone any questions?"

A lone, somewhat timid voice piped up. "Corporal, what do we do about the
room in the other wing?" Aha, trying to catch me out, were you, lad?

"What is your name, airman?"

"Northcott, corporal."

"We do nothing for the time being, Northcott. I am glad you brought this
matter up. I have spoken to Warrant Officer Samson and the Squadron Adj
about this and we do nothing until this wing is up to standard. Then we
shall see. If - and I repeat, if - they and the Station Commander are
satisfied with our standards on the CO's next inspection in five weeks
time, we might get some help to clean that place up, but that will depend
solely on your efforts here. Meanwhile, don't worry your pretty little
heads about it - that is why I am here. Taylor," the abrupt change of
direction did not give anyone time to respond, "report to me in my bunk in
an hour, with your list. There are some things I would like to discuss with
you." I marched out of the room to my bunk where I changed and made my way
over to the Mess for my evening meal.

I had not forgotten Taylor was going to bring the notes he made during the
inspection. I intend using this as an excuse to get inside his pants. I've
seen him at work in the hangar during the day and he really turns me on. It
had been a warm day and he had stripped down to an oily pair of ancient KD
shorts a size too small for him. I made damn sure he did not catch me
ogling his packet - which seemed to be even larger when crammed into the
confined space of that oily, dirty crotch. I wondered what he wore
underneath, if anything. I had a lot of difficulty keeping my pecker down
all that afternoon: good thing I had some paperwork to attend to in the
office.

Now I am back in my bunk I find I have no clear strategy or plan in
mind. My grandfather, who had spent most of his working life in the Army,
repeatedly said to me when he knew I had been promoted, "Elldon, when
you're left alone with the men in your charge, always keep two or three
steps ahead of them. Always make sure you have a plan of action or a
strategy to counter any signs of insubordination amongst the troops." I
have followed his advice since that first day and it has never failed
me. Sitting in my armchair with a cigarette going and trying to read a
magazine, I find I cannot concentrate on the printed words: they keep
blurring and fading in front of my eyes. I cannot stop thinking of Taylor
and his packet of goodies. Fuck this! I stand up and strip off my clothes,
only keeping on my thin flimsy shorts. The dark hair spattering my chest
retreats down to my stomach in a thin line, disappearing behind the
waistband. My cock is rigid, straining against the pale grey material, a
damp spot where my cockhead is leaking juice and getting bigger by the
second. I am not going to be able to keep my hands off my cock. Where the
fuck is Taylor? There came a sharp knock on my door, almost as if it was on
cue. "Come in!" I bellow, the words coming out louder and harsher than I
had intended, the pressure of my horniness making me lose control of my
voice - temporarily.

The door opens and Taylor comes in to my room. He is wearing nothing but a
jockstrap and socks. The white cotton gleams against his tanned body. His
well-toned muscles are displayed to best advantage, making him more
seductive. I detect a sense of veiled power in his physique. The jockstrap
he is wearing only adds to his presence. He is certainly not shy of showing
off his lusty manhood and I swore to myself he had a half hard-on. Two thin
strips of elastic delineate the twin mounds of solid flesh of his naked
arse, the near perfection of his body broken only by a rude ridge of hair
crawling into his arse crack. I hope he will soon have something else in
that cleavage!

"Come in, Taylor and close that fucking door. By the way, what's your first
name?"

"Andy, corporal."

"OK, Andy, let's drop the formalities. My name is Elldon but I don't want
to hear you call me that when the men are around, clear?"

"Yes - er - Elldon." To get things started and to relax us both, I began a
bit of horny male banter with him.

"You've got some balls, Andy, coming in here like that."

"I could say the same for you, Elldon," he replied, not trying to hide his
ogling of my package. "I thought we were going to go through the results of
this morning, not admire each other's choice in underwear and what's
filling it out."

"Right then, let's get down to business. Bring the list over here."

Every NCO's bunk has a small table, one of the privileges of rank. It's OK
when there is just one man using it, but it gets a tad cramped when two are
sitting at it. Andy and I sit side by side, the papers between us. My thigh
comes into direct contact with Taylor's, despite my best efforts. I can
feel the warmth of his thigh flesh against mine. I am damn sure he can also
feel my leg against his. I glance down at his crotch and like what I see
happening there. I am becoming randier and randier and I know he is as
well. He keeps trying to shift his leg away from mine, but there is not
enough space. I must get through the official business we have as fast as I
can, then get down to the real business of the day! Somehow, we eventually
get the job done. We are both as hot as devils in hell. He looks at me as I
finish entering the last note on the worksheet.

"Shall I make us both a coffee?" he asks, planting a warm hand on my
shoulder. Its contact almost scorches the skin off.

"Later," I say, "I like to see a man wearing a jock, Andy. I think it gives
a distinct sense of a guy's manhood, don't you?"

"Yeah," he replies, "I hardly ever wear anything else out of uniform. Don't
often wash 'em, either. Wanna smell?"

"Can't wait," comes my quiet reply.

"Then don't."

I stand up and face him. He runs his hands over my chest, stroking the hard
flesh of my pecs, gently scratching at my nipples which are standing up
like miniature hard-ons. He reaches out, the fingers of one hand delicately
fondling the outline of my cock in my scanty briefs. It rises up like a
marine at reveille, swift, strong and ready for action. He drags his hands
from my chest to my arms, running his fingers over my biceps, seizing me
under the arms. The damp hairs of my sweaty armpits send drifts of manly
odours into my brain. I burrow my face into his neck, chewing the thick
vein with my lips as a dog gnaws a succulent bone. He almost lifts me off
my feet as he drags his mouth over my shoulder, slavering over my chest,
lifting both arms. I reach out and grab hold of his rampant hard dick,
urging him on as he licks under one armpit. He opens his mouth to taste the
crude oil of my sweat. I growl deep in my throat, dropping my fist from his
cock, using both hands to encircle his ears, dragging his face over my
chest until he lifts the other arm and banquets there, opening his mouth
fully to gorge, to breathe in, to enjoy and appreciate the hairy reek.

"Go to it, Taylor." I give the order with my voice harsh, commanding.

He almost cracks my rib cage with the strength of both hands as he sinks
down, licking over and biting the trail of hair that leads to the waistband
of my skimpy briefs. He lashes his tongue over the band, tasting the
elastic, gnawing and snapping with his teeth. His chin brushes against the
hard cock pulsing inside my pouch, sending a wave of pure lust surging
through me. I lift his head, he looks up and sees this bastard of an NCO
glaring down at him. My arms are raised, trying to support myself against
the wall. The hairs of my armpits are glistening, stuck to my skin by my
sweat and his spittle. I drop my gaze. The thick, heavy rod inside my pouch
is leaning to the side, testing the strength of the cloth; a dark blot of
pre-seminal juice almost covers my cock head. Taylor presses his nose
against the oozy material, breathing in deeply the puissant cock and
pungent underwear odours. I force him to open his mouth and cover up that
cock head with his lips. I hurl it into his mouth, a guttural groan firing
from my lips like shot from a cannon. But he wants more. In one rapid
movement that surprises and almost spins me off my feet, he turns me round
and savagely tears my briefs down to my ankles. He forces me to lean
forward, both forearms resting on the table, and spread my legs. He lifts a
hand and grabs my heavy, sweaty ball sac from behind, violently twisting
and pulling at the contents until he makes me snap my head around and give
a moan that is half pain, half pleasure. He wants yet more. Gripping on to
a fistful of hard cock and sweaty balls, he sends his tongue licking slowly
and carefully down the crack of my arse. My moans, my writhing, are more
pleasure than pain. The hairs of my arse crackle like burning twigs as his
blistering tongue draws up the acrid moisture; he drinks like a thirsty man
in the desert. This is only the hors d'oeuvres. He is after the full
meal. He releases my cock and balls, slipping both hands around the lower
part of my arse cheeks. He pulls them apart, to gaze on the rare beauty of
hair framing a furrowed male arsehole. Then he tickles the ridge of my hole
with his tongue, breathing in my smell with his nose. I hump my arse back
with a savage snarl, "Eat that fucking NCO arsehole, junior technician!" He
wraps his forearms tightly around my thighs, nipping arse flesh with his
front teeth until I yelp like a dog being punished. He drives his tongue
deep into my hole, his nose buried in the hairs of my crack. He flicks his
tongue around the pulpous filling of my arsehole, savouring the
sensuousness of man to man intimacy. His tongue is alive, searching into
every crevice, nook and cranny it can reach, while he pulls my cheeks
further apart and thrusts his face up my arse.

Suddenly, I come away from his probing, scorching tongue and spin back to
face him. I step to one side, just out of reach, leaving him panting. My
legs are still spread, my chest heaving and shining with globules of
sweat. I wrap my strong fingers around my cock, peer at him with my gimlet
eyes and give him a wicked smile. I chuckle deeply in my throat and wave my
cock in front of me. "Open wide, airman!" I grate. I reach down and grasp a
handful of his cock hair and slip my swollen cock between his lips, corking
his throat with the thick, hard flesh of my rampant cock. He almost chokes
but takes a deep breath through his nose and is greeted with a heady whiff
of astringent cock hairs that make him shiver. He must be aching to have a
gutful of my cream to join that pungent odour. He can almost taste my
cum...I pull out roughly and snarl, "Back off, boy."

It was a command but I do not wait for him to obey. I pull him up by his
hair, push him on to his back across my bed. I kick off my briefs as he
kneels between my legs. I grasp his cock with my fist. His large cock head
is greasy with thick, oozing fluid. I snatch at his cock hairs, clamping my
mouth down on his cock. He groans loudly, clutching at my spiky hair while
I outrage his super cock, twisting and pulling on his cock hairs until he
must have thought they were being plucked out by the roots. He lifts his
hips and rams his aching cock in and out of my throat. I slide my other
hand round behind him and finger his arse. When my finger grates over the
delicate, sensitive folds and creases of his arsehole, I know I have hit
the epicentre. His body convulses. He roars like a wild animal, crushing my
mouth to his cock, forcing it to stay by grasping my ears painfully,
pushing his hips towards the ceiling and blasting off. At the first spurt,
I brutally take his hands from my head, lift my face and keep only the cone
of his cut dickhead between my lips while it pumps and gushes his seed into
my mouth and down my throat.

He lies there with his eyes closed, panting for air. Slobber and sweat run
down his chin, his whole body is wearing a shining armour of sweat. Sitting
on the edge of the table, one foot on the floor, the other on one of the
chairs, I gaze down at this man in admiration. He opens his eyes and the
first thing he sees is my cock, hard and rampant, which I am gently
stroking. The head sparkles, mainly due to the condom I have pulled on. My
bristly balls hang down beneath, the scrotum as hairy as my crack. Despite
just dropping a load into my mouth, I can see he is still lecherous: his
cock has only gone down halfway and is starting to revive and swell
again. I sweep my hand over the creased soft flesh of his balls. The warm
moisture, sticky with the remains of his jism, lingers on my hand like
early morning dew on grass. I lift my hand to his nose and order him to
"Smell yourself, boy." He inhales deeply and a gentle moan escapes his
parched lips. I watch him, keenly, a knowing smile lifting one corner of my
lips, then stand up. I walk over to where he is lying on his back on my bed
and stand over him, looking down on him. I lower myself to kneel on the
bed, straddling his chest, still stroking my raging condom wearing hard-on,
my balls swinging gently back and forth with the rhythm of my handiwork. I
rub my condomed cock head across his lips. As he tastes the fusion of
rubber and flesh his tongue flickers lizard-like to moisten his lips. He
mumbles something I cannot hear.

"What you sayin', boy?" I demand.

"Take the condom off, Elldon. I want to suck that cock until it shoots down
my gut. Take it off."

I smack him in the face with my cock. The blow is lewd, carnal. I work my
cock over his cheeks, his eyes, his lips and he begins to sweep at it with
his tongue, drenching it with his saliva, the blending of thin rubber and
hard cock flesh arousing fresh lust inside him. He wants more. He will not
get it. I inch my hips forward and position my legs until my quivering,
dribbling cock head is pulsing at his door. He lets me in. I enter. My cock
head widens his arsehole and drops inside, a white hot metal stake
dissolving into the warmth and softness of this man's body. He swings his
head from side to side, the palms of both hands grip the coverlet, he
groans.

"Now know me," my voice is hushed yet reverberates inside the room like an
echo in a canyon. I ram myself home. A masculine man with his cock impaling
the arse of another masculine man. He yells, gasps and drowns in my
consummate power. It raises him and spreads him wide as I hammer his arse,
my cock constantly stuffing him deep and hard, leaving him craving for yet
more.

"More... more... more..." he repeats endlessly, mindlessly as the fucking
goes on, "more... more... more..."

"Here's your fucking, boy" I grunt, ramming my cock home, pulling my cock
out, then ramming so deep he must have feared my cock head would leap from
his mouth. Sweat from his forehead is burning his eyes. Sweat from my chest
joined with his as I crushed his body with mine, his arse full of my cock,
my pulsating cock inside his guts, splitting him apart with its fierce and
riotous pleasure, as I clamp my cum washed mouth to his. Snarling like a
ravenous wolf, I empty the cream from my balls into his welcoming arse.

At last I find the energy to open my eyes, to raise myself from the body of
the man beneath me. I collapse sated on to a chair, grinning at him. I
caress my softening cock with tenderness. I look at Andy lying on my bed,
his eyes wide open, lips parted, breathing carefully and deeply. "I love
the feel of a satisfied dick," I say quietly. I slide a finger round the
rim of my cock head, squishing the last drops of my cum from my cock slit
and use it to coat the fleshy knob. Andy looks on, a little taken aback. We
gaze at each other for a seemingly long time, but the ancient Tannoy breaks
into our post coital calm. It is Lights Out once more. He gets up slowly,
slips his jock back on, hiding his precious cock once more. I circle his
hips with my arms, pulling him close. I look deep into his eyes.

"Stay with me, Andy," I murmur, "and we can go far. For once in my life, I
have met a man who I can trust with the key to my magic kingdom. Sleep
well."

Without replying, he turns and leaves the room.

Laurie, December 2016.