Date: Thu, 7 Aug 2014 07:25:23 +0200
From: Dampies Dampis <dampies1960@gmail.com>
Subject: WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING 3

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________________________
It was Saturday, and we had only a short therapy session scheduled for the
morning, and I WAS STONED. The week up to then had gone tolerably  well, as
my new resolve to endure the my therapist,  the Lt.'s homophobia, and prove
that I was a man, had stiffened my spine and given me the strength and grit
to clench my jaw, steel my eyes,  and buck up. My therapist, Lt. Dolf the
Hunky, of the Impressive Lump in his sexy,  skintight, perfectly ironed
uniform, had maintained his professional attitude,  and I had mercifully
not aroused (giggle) his ire by crying like a girl again.

My new-found military stoicism had also enabled me to (mostly) ignore his
smell,  or at least control my response to it. It wasn't cologne or
anything, it didn't precede him like the pink flag of a pseudo-masculine,
chap-encased, perfectly manicured gay 80's parody of natural manhood.  But
because we worked so closely and his hands had to often be on my body, I
was constantly subjected to a clean, manly smell that infected the air with
a dose of lethally intoxicating pheromones that targeted first my heart,
and then my crotch.

When his imposing presence strode into the therapy room, and his eyes
impaled me like a fly pinned on a specimen board, my heart made a
bollemakiesie (somersault) and I had to control my breathing as well as
where my eyes ranged, seemingly of their own accord.

He made the Ken doll look like the joke it was. The broad expanse of his
chest flared up from his impossibly narrow hips, to a broad V that was
punctuated on either side by the insignia of rank on his shoulders. In
between, the expanse of his chest swept from side to side in a brush stroke
of military perfection,  barely contained in the illusion of order  by his
shiny buttons and square, symmetrical pockets. The topping of the wine red
beret above the line of the dark eyebrows that framed his startling hazel
eyes, was like an exclamation mark at the end of a sentence that hinted at
forbidden delights, packaged as the epitome of military control.

At the back, his ass made the fabric of his pants,  and my self-control,
groan. It similarly flared gracefully from the impossibly narrow hips
encircled by the horizontal hoop of his belt, to curve succulently out and
down in a tension-filled bow of delight, to meet, on either side, the
pillar-like strength of his legs. Between the latter,  the crease where his
legs met his ass was a promised land,  a forbidden garden of virile secrecy
guarded by the lions of his glutes.

But the best was the smell. As he leaned towards me to engage with me in
therapy, I silently inhaled the advert of his potency, the flag of his
virility, and quietly willed my boner to remain under control by picturing
his utter disdain and disgust at my queerness.

Well,  I did say I was stoned.

Back to the Saturday in question. The guys in the ward had started acting a
bit less aggressively towards me. They joked with me now,  even jiggling a
dick or ass at me occasionally in jest,  and I was not feeling as miserable
as before. And Ja,  you did hear right. One of them, Kobus,  had managed to
smuggle some special cookies in, and he had shared. Use of Marijuana was
quite common and it managed to take the edge off our boredom and despair.
We were giggling our asses off and joking around when the Lt. walked in to
collect me for our "short" session.

He took one look at what was going on before we all realized he was there
and a corporal near the door alerted us with a call to attention. Wherever
we were,  we came to our version of attention and he sauntered into the
room. His eyes were glittering above his sneering mouth and flared
nostrils. He stopped in front of Kobus' bed and the latter froze in
mid-giggle.

"Corporal," he murmured, immobilizing Kobus with his pointed stare.

"Report."

The command was conversational and only previous (sober) experience in the
SADF  could have alerted anybody that there was some shit about to go down.
But Kobus was as stoned as the rest of us and didn't pick up on the danger
signs.

Corporal Kobus made an effort to "report" but only succeeded in delivering
a garbled string of "ums"  and "uhs" intermingled with some stifled
chuckles and giggles and snorts. When he finally gave up,  Lt. Vosloo stood
silently in front of him and looked speculatively at the seated man, and
eventually said: "I see."

There was little he could do to us physically because we were not
able-bodied, so I knew something more sinister was in the offing. Lucky I
was too goofed to care, and as the Lt. ushered me off for our physio
session I was quite oblivious to the sword of damocles that teetered over
my head.

I was grateful for the fact that I was stoned,  because what ensued was a
session of physical punishment and endurance that worked my ass off in
strength and flexibility. Have you ever tried to do push-ups with a man
holding your legs in the air and you have an erection in your sweats? Have
you done 100 crunches while hanging by your knees 6ft in the air,  trapeze
style? Have you survived sixty minutes of bone crunching and tendon tearing
stretches,  while a slab of muscle with arms plants his foot just shy of
your (engorged) crotch, with his left hand on your knee and and his right
forcing your hamstring to snapping point. I farted and groaned and sweated
and whined and came one ball hair short of outright passing out. But I was
in heaven. Because I was stoned I put up with it all,  just enjoying the
feeling of my military torturer's strong manly hands all over my aroused
5ft 7, muscular, gay body. When I thought he was done, he used me as a
wheelbarrow up and down the gym, and I realized that in my dope-enduced
daze I had forgotten to put on a jocks strap,  so the Lt. had a great and
unimpeded view of my balls jiggling in front of his crotch and my obscenely
erect cock pushing up the front of my shorts.

By the time I was done I was sweating big time,  and my heart was thumping
in my chest. If you thought that not having feet meant you couldn't get
exercise,  think again,  as Lt. Hunky Vosloo of the Plump Basket could
prove you wrong.

"So it looks like the troep is a happy boy today," he said, nodding at my
still plump dick. "Wagging your tail because the rank is touching your
puny, maimed body."  He was sitting opposite me and had my left leg in his
hands, thoughtfully examining my still rosy stump and fingering the
sensitive edges with his warm thumb, all the while working aromatic medical
lubricant around the tip as he massaged the healing scar. He scooted closer
on his chair, the legs making a crass scraping noise on the tiled floor,
and before I knew what was happening he had gripped my vulnerable ball-sack
in his right fist and squeezed hard. I saw stars,  since he wasn't
fondling,  but rather had the intention to hurt. A literally nut-numbing
ache radiated upwards and outwards from my gonads. His voice was cruel,
soft and harsh,  and he continued to squeeze my testicles in a vice-like
grip. His face was right up against mine and I was impaled by his hazel,
hate-filled eyes. I could taste his clean manly breath on my lips as he
spoke, and my already meager breath evaporated as my heart thumped in my
chest at his devastating proximity.

"You shouldn't get your hopes up little girl-boy, if a real man like me was
interested in men I wouldn't choose a legless poofter like yourself. If
that is what I wanted I would stick with real girls, one who had the
ability to take a real man-dick in a real cunt, and could carry babies for
me. So give it up, you damaged queer reject, it will never happen!"

For good measure he moved his hand upwards on my now rock hard and drooling
cock and speculatively explored my not unrespectable 7 inches with his
fingers. He shook his head and tutted. Then he abruptly released my dick
and balls and rapped cock sharply,  sending a blinding, mind-numbing pain
up my core and body.

And to my dismay I shot my load in my shorts!

While I was still in the spasms of my pain-induced ejaculating and orgasme,
he stood up and looked down on me and the embarrassing dark mark of cum
that stained my gym shorts.

"Fokken pateties...!" (fucking pathetic) he murmured,  again shook his
head,  and stood, making as if to leave. At the door he paused with out
turning to face me.

"Tomorrow afternoon after lunch, report to my room. I have some laundry
that needs to be done. Be there at two,  and don't be late. And now get
back to your fucking barracks, queer. You and your fucking stoned buddies
have an inspection in an hour. And Jesus help you if I'm not happy. I can
make even a bunch of army reject cripples wish they were never born!"

With that he disappeared down the passage. Stoned or not, I sighed and
succumbed to the mixture of horniness and fear that flooded my body.
____________________
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