Date: Sun, 22 Jan 2017 19:08:17 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Off the Magic Carpet

This story and its characters are fiction. It is a personal fantasy which I
am sharing with you. If any character resembles you or someone you know, I
WANT DETAILS, you lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course,
copyrighted by the author with all rights reserved and very, very
negotiable. Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at
donate.nifty.org/donate.html! I'm an old guy (>30). I know what it was like
when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow just to
GET to the XXX store. You whippersnapper don't know how good you've got it.

This involves sex between consenting (>16 yo) males; if that is illegal for
who/where you may be right now, fuck off and get thee to a monastery (where
you might just find scenes similar to some below). Also, please note that
all my stories exist in a world where STDs are neither common nor
deadly. Don't be a fucking idiot; use protection. 'To die for' sex should
never lead to your actual death.

I like hearing from people but I also hate spam. If you get off on flaming
people, please know that you will HATE the results. I will read your
missive and weave you and your comments into my next story to the point
that you cry like a little girl. Bullies get as bullies give.

PLEASE NOTE: There are a of number of fantasies that I've constructed over
the decades. Some are simple, some take setup. This is one of the
latter. What you read below will only become a real story if people like it
and (see postscript) where I think it is likely to go. Let me know if you
think there should be a Chapter 2.

*****

Author's Note: Operation Magic Carpet was one of the largest people-moving
operations in history, repatriating around eight million Americans from the
various fronts after World War II. Not surprisingly that took more than the
week or so hinted by the post-war movies of war brides and tearful
reunions. This story takes place during and after that operation.

*****

Off the Magic Carpet 1: Hellos and Goodbyes

By Bear Pup

M/M(M) and M/T; brief sex scenes

I cheered with all the brothers in arms when Ike's message was read in May
of 1945, that the war in this beautiful and terrible country was over. I
cheered even more when, just three months later, he told us that the Japs
had surrendered as well, right the other side of the world. We were finally
at peace and, like all the men, I thirsted for the tastes of home and
daydreamed aloud with the others on what we'd do first. Who we'd kiss, what
we'd drink, who we'd fuck, what we'd eat, who we'd marry. Most of all, how
long we'd SLEEP!

That was two years ago. There were 238 of us left in Oberammergau. We'd
started in Berchtesgaden, ensconced in one of the hotels where vacationing
Nazis had been skiing the year before. I had been a warrior, once. Supply
Officer Sergeant (Samuel) Reilley, reserve radioman for the 309th Artillery
Battalion of the 78th Infantry. With the war ended, off went the gunners
and we were "temporarily" assigned duties with the USFET, The United States
Forces Easter Theatre. We moved from HQ to HQ as everyone else shipped home
and the Army got smaller and smaller. Apparently, the one thing they DID
need in the aftermath was a guy who could count and was not susceptible to
paper cuts.

Finally, though, word came through that USFET was done to be replaced by
EUCOM and I didn't give a fuck what that stood for. I was headed home! As
much as we yearned for home, the two years floating from place to place in
southern Germany, watching them rebuild, even helping them rebuild, were
hard to leave. Equally hard were the men (all puns intended).

I'd grown closest to Parker and Flank, both my age and both from similar
Midwest roots. Parker was from the fields of Iowa and Flank from Indiana,
but their stories of home looked, to me, just like Kansas. Open fields and
closed minds. We'd never done anything, it just didn't happen. But we found
that we shared a certain taste. The non-fraternisation rules that prevented
contact with German women (in theory if not practice) drew out a certain
type of young German guy, a few of them men who'd been shooting at you as
reluctantly as you'd shot at them just months or years before. Usually
beefy, pale-skinned, vaguely-undernourished and flush-faced young men in
the bloom of manhood.

Mere weeks after VE day, I'd been drinking when I spied Parker, a man I'd
noticed from another unit. We were each drinking at a makeshift
biergarten. An enterprising frau had found a way to procure cheap brew and
made it known that soldiers were welcome if discreet and paying American
scrip (or indiscreet and paying actual dollars or *lots* of American
scrip). A lot of the men found ways to 'detour' past her courtyard to or
from fulfilling orders.

So I had already half-emptied the chipped stein when I saw Parker watching
someone. I couldn't make out who. Parker was a big kid. Young -- maybe 19?
At least a decade younger than me for certain -- not a lot of hair and what
there was had the look of straw. Wide shoulders. Sergeant stripes like
mine. He stood up and headed over to the home's window and makeshift bar
and gathered two mismatched steins. He casually moved to a table near the
side entrance to the courtyard and sat across from a young man. Certainly
younger even than Parker; no German old enough to hold a gun would be in
the town yet, assuming he survived.

Toward the end, Hitler had raped the countryside for troops. Bavaria was
less-hard hit, no one knew why, but it was unlikely the boy was more than
16 (but not less from the thick bush of hair that poked out the pits of his
short-sleeved shirt, not to mention his roughly six feet of stature). Maybe
the favoured son of a local bügermeister, thus saved from the reaper?
Parker pushed one stein over to the guy and was rewarded with a huge,
toothy smile.

Here is an undervalued benefit of a place where people did not share a
common language. You didn't need to be anywhere near them to eavesdrop. No,
the boy had not fought. No, he had not been trained to fight. No, Parker
did not shoot a gun for a living. He mimed paperwork and typing. Both
laughed. Yes, both liked the beer. Yes, both thought it was a nice day.

They mimed and spoke at cross purposes for a while, something I found
charming. When Parker was trying to figure out a way to say something
(probably where he was from; how does one mime Iowa?), I watched the lad's
eyes rove the big man's chest and arms, face getting more flushed than the
beer or native colouring could account for.

The lad startled a little when he realised that Parker had caught him
looking. The Sergeant smiled at the lad, then smiled hugely at the blush he
saw when the lad realised he'd been busted. Parker pulled his hands behind
his neck as if stretching, expanding his chest and flexing his arms to the
obvious interest of the German kid. They returned to smiling and sipping.

Parker asked where the lad lived. A mischievous look in his eye, he stood
and turned to point back up the hill on which the biergarten stood, giving
Parker every possible angle of observation on that stunning if underfed
frame. He torqued his long V frame, showing the lean and sinuous
muscles. And OH MY, the ass was simply breath-taking no bubble but just
tight and defined muscles and deep, deep dimples. When the German lad
turned back, he not-so-casually scratched himself, making certain that
everything he had was clearly apparent. My angle was frustrating to say the
least!

Parker offered the lad a cigarette and his eyes lit up. American smokes
were a hot trading commodity. They smoked and mime-chatted and finished the
beers. When they were done, the lad motioned for Parker to follow, which he
did. Unbeknownst to either, so did I.

Yeah, I was a pencil-pusher. A supply and radio guy. But that was because I
was really good at those things, not because I was bad at everything else
it took to make a soldier. I left by the front and stalked around the
building until I spotted them. They went about four blocks along the hill,
then one up and slipped into a barn.

I was moments behind. This was Germany after the war, all shadows and
shattered facades. There weren't many buildings that were completely
enclosed at that point. I found a nice vantage along one side of the barn
they'd chosen and watched as Parker and Rainer (he finally introduced
himself in my hearing) eased into the gloom. It seemed that it was Parker's
turn to be a bit skittish. They moved into the open space between the
stalls and suddenly the German was all over the not-much-larger and
not-much-older sergeant. Rainer locked him against a centre-post in a kiss
for the ages.

I watched spellbound as it began to rain gear, fatigues and civvies. As if
by magic, two amazingly hot men emerged. Parker was under siege and unsure
what to do next. Rainer had no such problem. Parker's straw-coloured hair
in GI thatch on top was absent on the rest of his frame. He had a nice
treasure trail and a line separating the lobes of his pecs. His rather
painfully-erect manhood and balls were surrounded as well, but most of the
rest of him was either smooth or washed with a dusting of ethereal fuzz.

In contrast, the German lad had the beginnings of a mat of bear fur, brown
and curled, that started from his chest and spread south without breaking
to coat arms and legs as well and his very nice ass that was pointed toward
my peephole. There was no way this kid was too young for the Nazis to
conscript; he had obviously been hidden and hidden well. I started to guess
why as he worked Parker into a frenzy.

The lad broke the kiss and began licking and teasing Parker
unmercifully. Ear, neck, nipples. When the lips were on one target the
hands another; dick, balls, ass. Parker's farm-boy vocabulary was put to
the test. By the time the boy had Parker nuts-deep in his throat, one hand
milking his sac and the other teasing his asshole, Parker probably could
not have recalled his name.

The moan that erupted from the sergeant was the mourning of ultimate loss
when the lad pulled back smiling wickedly and stepped away.  The look on
Parker's face, the hunger and fire, made the General Issue Nut Butter in my
own balls churn and beg for release. When that German farm-boy turned and
bend over a bale and smiled seductively back at his counterpart farm-boy
from half a world away, the reaction was immediate and inspiring.

Parker growled, low and intense, and stalked forward like a big cat
claiming his prey. Parker licked up Rainer's back until he was at the lad's
ear before beginning to thrust his spit-slick prick through the lad's
trench. The German writhed and twisted, prolonging the contact put
preventing the increasingly-frustrated Parker from reaching his goal.

And they said trench warfare was so last war!

Finally, Rainer held still and reached between his leg to guide Parker
home. The prolonged, tortured groan of his slow but uninterrupted entry was
like Karloff, Chaney and Lugosi combined, the thousand-year need of the
damned, fulfilled. Rainer winced, but smiled so wide the top of his head
might have fallen off.

I expected Parker to launch into the kind of fuck-frenzy common in
post-battle brothel-stops. He surprised me (after the initial plunge) by
becoming a careful, gentle and very, very thorough lover. He plundered
Rainer from every angle, bringing the boy to orgasm halfway through. He
twisted and stroked the man's nipples, sides, ass-cheeks, thighs. He kissed
Rainer's ears and neck and hair. He whispered sweet less-than-nothings
(since neither could understand the other). Eventually, both covered in
sweat and moaning, Parker brought the lad to orgasm again which pushed
himself over the top.

I'll admit, I learnt a lot from Parker that day (and the other couple times
I snuck out to see him in action). He played the lad's body like an
instrument. In the end, he simply collapsed back and sat heaving for breath
on the barn floor. Rainer turned in awe, obviously never having expected
such a masterful and fulfilling fuck. He pulled a cloth from the stall-wall
and undid the worst of the damage on his leaking ass then moved to
reassemble the piles of clothes.  He handed the rag to Parker who wiped
absently, still lost in the throes of his long-overdue release.

When he came round, finally, it was to see Rainer sitting on an upturned
bucket smoking one of Parker's American cigarettes. Parker's uniform was
laid out and brushed off (nice touch), but I noticed that any item of
potential black-market value had been extracted from the various pockets
and set carefully on top. The message was clearly not lost on Parker who
smiled contentedly. He kept his partial-pack of smokes and set the two
unopened packs to the side. Rainer smiled when he added the two chocolate
bars, then beamed when Parker added a handful of hard candies and a pair of
nylon stockings.

Both dressed and I watched, whilst Rainer was struggling with his pants,
Parker slip several crisp US Dollar bills into the pocket of the shirt the
boy had not yet donned. I was touched and impressed. To give the boy even
$2 (or more, a princely sum in post-war Germany) as part of the post-coital
exchange would have been generous but insensitive and tawdry; to slip the
cash in unnoticed was somehow.... almost romantic.

I am not above being a complete asshole, so I made sure to be leaning
against the barn's wall when a very nervous Parker emerged. Every trace of
colour drained from his face as I just smiled widely, nodded to him and
sauntered off down the lane. On post, he looked at me like the Prince of
Darkness and scuttled away for the next two weeks. That's when the first
shuffle happened and we ended up in the same squad working toward a
peaceful Occupation. One evening, I cornered him. He nearly wet himself (no
fooling) and it took me half an hour of soft-talk to make him understand
that I would never say anything. We ended up fast friends.

We never talked about what we each did, but I know he watched me with
Rainer once, and with the town butcher, a mountain of a man with an
insatiable ass and a lethal weakness for sweats. We'd see each other pick
up a man here and there, but a waggled eyebrow was as far as it
went. During the next shuffle, we ended up in Übersee for a few weeks
before transfer to what we agreed to call Cantspellthat. There we met
Flank. Parker and I separately caught him picking up an absolutely
delicious kid, smooth and blond and delectable and innocent (or so we
thought).

Parker and I caught sight of each other from different windows of the
bombed-out factory as Flank proved that Jannik, the tender little thing,
was not even on the scales of tender, delicate or innocent, and was
*anything* but little. We'd both later enjoy this diminutive hellcat who
shaved his slight and talented body to better parley his encyclopaedic
knowledge of man-to-man sex into a very lucrative trade. As with Parker,
nothing happened directly with Flank, but there were more than a few trysts
where a wall or window got painted with GI Batter where one or the other of
us watched the other's sexual calisthenics.

We also each had plans stateside. I had been married since I was 16. My son
was 11 when they ripped me away to war in 42; I had just turned 27. I had
survived the first round as the breadwinner for my young family, but since
her father was a moderately-successful merchant, I became eligible and was
drafted less than a year after Pearl Harbor. I yearned to see the son whose
childhood I'd missed, and had often cried on the shoulders of Parker and
Flank as our post-war separation grew and grew.

Parker had a different problem. He'd been a randy-as-hell 15-year buck when
war broke out. He volunteered right out of the gate and was shut down. His
forged birth certificate had more wet ink than Parker had pubic hair. They
promised to take him on his 17th birthday. Not a stupid lad, he'd known how
to play it. He got a lot of action in those two years. As his 17th
approached, he convinced no less than *four* local beauties to bed him in
promise of marriage if their brave soldier boy returned unscathed.

Parker had, he admitted one night, never really expected to survive. Even
if he did, all four would surely have Dear Johned him long before the war
would end. Sadly, he was a much better lover than he gave himself credit
for. Three of the four were waiting, all with families planning nuptials in
the months after his return. Of the three of us, I don't think he would
have minded another extension.

Flank was the polar point between us. He'd had one girl, Melissa, since
they'd been kids. He spent long and tedious hours telling us about their
plans. How many kids, when, where, how (with a lot of extremely juicy
details) and how they'd love and teach and rear them. That crashed suddenly
in the fall of 46, about five months after we'd met. Another returning
serviceman had convinced Melissa that one war hero was a good as the next
and that she'd waited long enough. She'd written him and very polite letter
signed, "Mrs Jack Hotchkiss (Melissa)".

It took everything Parker, I and the rest of the crew had (and a lot of
smokes, booze and chocolate to Jannik and his cohorts) to keep Flank from
going bat-shit crazy. Turns out it didn't help. I heard later that mere
weeks after Flank's final discharge came through: he'd shot himself on the
front porch of Mr and Mrs Hotchkiss' bright new ticky-tacky home. Melissa,
six months gone with her second child, found him. Flank had changed his
Army Benefits and named Melissa's first-born, then less than a year old
with no mention of the child's mother of father, as his beneficiary. War
has many victims killed by many wounds; Flank just fell later than most
casualties of WWII.

So Parker and I (and, we mistakenly assumed, Flank) were off to the greener
pastures of home. The constant rain (and beauty) of southern Germany was to
become forever part of our past. The scents of cyclamen and kattfot and
glockeblume would soon give way (for me at least) to the phlox,
brown-eyed-susan and goldenrod of the Kansas plains. I had orders taking me
to Dunkirk and then Southampton aboard the USS Lake Champlain. Both the
other were headed to La Havre, ships TBD at time of arrival. It was oddly
formal and sad the way we shook hands at the railhead. The end of a
friendship of sorts. The end of a war.

<eof>

*IF* this story continues, I think the key themes will likely be Sam's
reintegration into the society that changed radically whilst he was
overseas, and especially his reconnexion with his son, on the cusp of
puberty when he left and now on the cusp of manhood, replete with the same
sexual adventurousness as his father. I let the character guide the plot,
but the hint I get from Sam is that incest will be a very minor theme,
overwhelmed with mentoring and the fatherly guidance Sam never
received. Let me know your thoughts.