from M.A.C.H.O. BBS

MY LOVER THE MARINE

If any guy could make a pair of camouflage fatigues look good, Trace could.  I 
remembered the first time I saw him on campus wearing them.  His khaki 
splotched pants showed only a suggestion of the firm round globes of his ass 
as their heavy cloth draped over the contours beneath.  The flap pockets on 
his shirt seemed to slant slightly giving a subliminal revelation of his 
nautilus- developed pecs.  His manner was casual; never too serious but not 
flippant.  Each person seemed important to him; but not so important that he 
would cry himself to sleep thinking about them (the way I was doing for him!)

We had been in a couple of classes together but hadn't really gotten to know 
each other until we shared that summer seminar together in philosophy.  Fate 
was on my side as we were teamed up to do a required class presentation on 
Dewey's pragmatism and its applications in current governmental policies.  But 
that seems like ages ago...

Trace is before me now.  His wrists stretched out to the limits of the 
suspended beam, bound tightly by the leather-lined cuffs bolted to the rough 
wood.  The beam is high enough that he can barely touch the floor with his 
bare feet.  The flickering candlelight adds atmosphere as my eyes roam his 
nude body.  The curly blond hair droops over his forehead pointing to his now 
blindfolded blue eyes.  His mouth reveals a wince that only my slaves portray. 
 The stretched pecs glisten with sweat and looks as smooth as the marble 
statues in the museum.  A thin trail of soft hair draws my eye to his 
expectantly tumescent 8 inch cock; not hard but not soft, waiting to be 
encouraged to greater service for its master.  Just below is the leather ball 
harness I made him put on before he submitted to the cuffs and beam.  "Do I 
have to?  sir?"  He had asked.

"Do what you are told, slave!  I don't want to be bothered with all that 
hardware.  Snap it on and don't be slow," I had growled.  When I added the 
sash weights to the harness after he had been stretched to the beam, he 
writhed in expectant delight and moaned slightly.  I had a hard time not 
revealing the intensity of my own desire for him then.  But a master remains a 
master... for now.  "Make those weights swing, soldier!  Faster!  I want to 
hear them hit your legs."

"Yes, Sir!  I am trying, sir."

"They're not swinging fast enough!  I want your balls to ache for me.  I want 
them to ache with their load until you can't stand it any more.  Am I going to 
have to encourage you to be a good soldier?"

"If it pleases you, Sir.  I am supposed to please you in every way, sir."

I took the riding crop from its holder and brushed it gently over the tip of 
his rising cock.  Involuntarily it responded with a bobbing nod of fear, 
dread, and expectancy.  Since he was bound to only the beam, I had access to 
his entire body as I walked around the room in my dull black boots.  Smack!  I 
gave his ass a stiff whip.

"Aaah!  Thank you, sir!!  I need to please you sir!"  His cry was almost joy 
instead of pain.  (Why am I doing this?)  Another five or ten cracks to the 
backside; each greeted with the same "Thank you, sir."  (Time to work the 
front a bit.) I reached around him without touching his body and grasped his 
nipples which were now hard with excitement and expectation.  I took the 
clamps out of my pocket and gave each tit an extra hard squeeze just before I 
put the clamps on.  He began to sweat more.  It ran down his forehead, his 
temples, along his magnificent chin line and formed a rivulet down his neck 
between those glorious pecs.  I wanted to lick it all up.

I grabbed the weights and put them through the chain between his tit clamps, 
adding weight to his chest and lifting his balls up.  Slowly I took my leather 
gloved hand and peeled back his foreskin, revealing the red corona beneath, 
already well moistened with pre-cum juices.  Suddenly I pulled back hard, 
bending his cock like I was snapping a radio antenna from a luxury car.

"Aauuungh!  Oh shiiiiiitttt" he hissed.

"Are you my good little slave?"  I asked.

"Yes sir."

"Say it!"  I shouted.

"I am your good little slave, sir."

"and?..."  I asked, giving him his cue.

"And uh " He paused, and then began almost as though he had memorized it, "I 
am your good little slave and I love you because you teach me how to enjoy the 
pain I desire."

"And why do you desire it?  Why do you beg to be stretched to the limit and 
grovel to serve me?"

"Because I love you, sir.  I love you with the intensity I am unable to 
express myself."  (Hey, he was departing from the script.  He was really 
saying some heavy stuff here.)  "I need you because my feelings are trapped 
inside this body and I need to get them out.  I love you in ways I can never 
show in this scene or any other.  I love you more than any slave ever could, 
Bob."  I was too stunned to discipline him for the infraction of using my name 
instead of the ritualized "sir."  But this was only the beginning of my 
stunned shock.  Tears were starting to form under the blindfold.  I could tell 
because his nose was running.  He was starting to gasp and his huge body was 
being overtaken by an intense shudder from his baseball shoulders down to his 
sculptured toes.  Seeing the Crucifixion itself could not have been any more 
touching to me than the passion that was unfolding before me.  I tried to 
maintain control but it was crumbling fast.  Was I affected by what he was 
saying or was I afraid for his safety?

The unfolding mystery led me to take the blindfold off and I gazed into those 
marine-blue pools of passion.  He tried to avoid my glance like a good slave 
but we couldn't break the hold.  He tried to continue, "I need you, sir, 
because I need to have someone who can hold me when I am vulnerable; who knows 
when I am hurting inside; who can make the hurt go away because I know he 
loves me too."

"I need you, sir, because I need to love someone, too.  Someone who knows my 
limits but who also knows how to challenge me and help me grow not just in the 
scenes but in my life our life too."

I lost my grip on Trace's cock and stood there in shock.  I knew I had 
fantasized about him for a long time but I really through all those scenes 
never had heard him say he loved me in such a tender genuine way.

We gave up the scene.  When I took the beam down and the cuffs off, we lay 
down on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace and I treated each of the 
wounds and nursed that body like I was his slave.  (How could I have hurt him 
like that?  But would he have been aware of his genuine love without it?  I 
guess I will never know.)

That night was not wild sex but it was passionate.  We walked around in each 
other's minds as we had never done before.  We talked and we talked.  We 
cuddled and nestled in the contoured places of each other's body.  There would 
be new scenes again together, we were sure.  But now there was the hope of a 
life together, too.

Amazing isn't it?  No one on campus would believe that the Commander of the 
ROTC and I, the President of the Pacifists Alliance, are lovers.  Why talk 
politics in bed when there's so much else waiting for you?