Date: Sun, 21 Jan 2001 22:50:26 EST
From: Maletrain@aol.com
Subject: A Marine and a $25 Bet

ST; 'A Marine and a $25 Bet' {maletrain} {M/M, bond, sm} [1!1]

A Marine and a $25 Bet
by Maletrain
[Maletrain@aol.com]

-------------------
c 2001 by Maletrain
[Maletrain@aol.com]
All rights reserved.

You may save or make paper copies for your own use. This story may be
shared provided it is not changed and provided the name of the author is
retained with the text. This story may not be published without permission
from the author.
-------------------

I had shot my last roll of film and so headed to the mall I
saw a few miles back to buy some more. Didn't know
where the camera store would be; figured I'd park near
the main entrance, go in and find a directory. The trick to
parking near a mall entrance is that the number of
parked cars stretches out further to the edge of the lot
than where there is no direct access to the mall, but the
other side of the equation is that there are more short
term people who park near the doors too. After all, if you
are going to be at the mall for several hours walking all
over, you don't mind parking where you will have to
saunter some, but if you are only running in to buy a
couple AA batteries, you don't want to hike half a mile
before you get to the store. So there is generally a more
rapid turn over of those spots near the entrance, you just
have the cruise a little.

And today, with that mid-summer sun beating down it
was much nicer to spend the time in the A/C of the car
than making the long hot slog in from the outer reaches of
the mall property boundary line.

The local radio warnings of not leaving pets or babies
unattended in cars today due to the heat reminded me
that I had heard in the national news of actual cases
where small children had died when left in cars while a
parent dashed in to do some quick shopping. In fact in our
paper back home they published information that even on
a 75 degree day with the windows rolled up in direct sun
light a car would quickly become a sweat box, at 80
degrees a car would heat up to 131 degrees in 15 minutes;
and at 100 degrees outside in that quarter hour the inside
of the car would be 172.

The air temperature was already up to 85 right now and
rising fast. Not too uncomfortable in a desert, but after
the cold winter we had had here in the Midwest, the
warmth was quite noticeable.

A slot opened up about 1/3 of the way out to the end of the
row and I pulled in. Just as I was swinging my door open,
a built young blond strode past walking in from further
out in the sizzling lot. He was wearing athletic shoes,
white sox, dark cargo shorts, and plaid boxers up at least
2 inches above the cargos but still well below that first
ridge of his ab pack. He was shirtless but I hardly noticed
that because his upper body had such a natural classic
look: his tight bare teen trunk seemed as if he were
indeed wearing clothes. He actually appeared to be
flaunting his build; he was not so much walking as he was
"strutting" into the mall. Between the bottom of the cargo
shorts and the top of the athletic sox I enjoyed seeing a
set of very nice calves working. Lots of dudes who wear
cargo shorts just have two narrow shapeless poles going
down to their feet, but not this guy. There was symphony
in the fluid motion of those clean calves clenching and
releasing, clenching and releasing as he strutted along. I
noticed his worked out upper arms bulging and those
calves provided a very worthy complement to them. From
what I could see I didn't know if he had double-peaked
biceps but it looked like he certainly had well defined
double-peaked calf muscles.

Now all this would have been enough to get my attention,
but to top it off, his bright blond haircut was clearly a
high and tight, extremely athletic, even military.

By the time I had unfolded myself from behind the wheel
and stepped up and out and got the car locked up I was
too far behind to catch up with him but squinting off in
his direction I did see him daringly pass inside the outer
mall doors before he pulled out a plain white A-shirt and
slipped it over his perfect yield sign shaped torso.

The pleasant memory of his passing, indeed the mental
video of this buzz cut blond replayed several times in my
head as I found the camera store and got my film. I was
back out at the car wondering where to go next to capture
the cityscape of this out of state town I was visiting for
the first time, when I saw another shirtless guy coming
out of the mall, shirtless even before he hit the outer door.
A second teen! I wondered what they put in the water in
this town. At that distance I didn't recognize his body, but
I did soon smile as I identified that strutting stride. Wow
did he have an attractive manly face, and a tight body,
and pecs that were flat thick trapezoidal forms fitted out
with standard man-sized nipples set right at the outer
lower pec corners pointing slightly down and out. A severe
45-degree angle up from his baseball capped shoulders to
his strong Adam's apple equipped neck. An obvious 6-pac,
almost an 8-pac was seen riding just above those plaid
boxers. He had no love handles, the smooth skin was
pulled in tight to his waist; he had very, very little body
fat.

I saw several women and even some guys look at him as
he passed them. In fact one middle-aged lady in an SUV
almost had an accident as she lost track of where she was
driving even as her eyes were tracking the kid's marching
up the line of cars in the lot.

Marching, that was it! Almost like he was doing a
military parade drill in his naked nipples there in the now
90 degree sun of the mall lot. He sort of rolled his hips,
not in a feminine way, but in a super masculine way and
kept the top of his blond military high and tight level and
straight as he moved closer to me.

I had seen that body movement before in watching
Marines marching on the parade field. Once in great
while I will see a civilian walk like that, I think it has
something to do with a guy who does a lot of leg lifts or
somehow has a lot of muscle control of his hips and upper
legs. It is not really a strut or a swagger nor is it a glide,
but sort of a combination of all three. John Wayne had a
version of this walk. Let's just leave it at a parade drill
gliding strut.

And I could see in my head a video of ranks of uniformed
Marines carrying their weapons in close order parade
moves. "From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of
Tripoli." That was it! The kid was walking slower than a
regular teen would walk, but with more purpose than
some guy just bopping along. He was stepping to standard
military parade cadence, in ordered and precise steps, and
in his mall lot parade drill he sure didn't need any
epaulets; his high-mounded shoulder muscles were doing
very well in their absence. In place of campaign ribbons
on a trim dark tunic, his lightly tanned torso had those
fine firm-domed nipples forming just the right accessory
look to his ever so slightly and rhythmically flexing chest:
a solid set of twin muscle slabs carried high, proud, and
out above the two columns of the slowly undulating ab
pac.

My eyes followed him sweep by me. He moved out way
past the line of parked cars; seemed to be heading for a
lonely Buick LaSabre isolation-parked at the very edge of
the lot. I backed out my Ford and drove out toward him
formulating my plan.

I pulled up as he was about to reach his car and yelled
out: "Parked a little far out, didn't you?" His face, serious
or lost in thought on his way out now lightened up; he
smiled back that he had had to be careful with the car as
it was his mom's and he had to pick her up at 7 p.m. from
work; but then with eyes sparkling, and smile broadening
even more, his Adam's apple bobbed, his abs flexed
subconsciously, and told me he wanted to make the walk
as long as possible to maximize the tanning. Said he had
trouble keeping a tan as he was so blond. I told him I was
an amateur photographer from out of town and that I had
seen some interesting suburban factory buildings about
three blocks down, just past the McDonald's and I
wondered if he wouldn't mind taking 5 minutes to pose for
me, thought the bricks and steel and sharp lines and
angles would be a good contrast to the smooth compound
curves of his muscles. He smiled again, that big smile of
guys who know they are good looking.

Relaxing his well-capped shoulders a little, he opened up,
like someone who really hadn't said much to anyone all
day and was trying to make up for it now that he had a
live audience. The situation rapidly became even better
than I had hoped: he said he had flown home for a very
quick leave having just finished boot camp with the
Marines. He only had a day or two, and probably
shouldn't have taken leave at this time; most of his
friends were working today or out of town. He really
didn't have much to do; he could spend as much time this
afternoon as I needed. He knew the place I was talking
about, or at least the road leading back in there.

With that I let him back out and my Ford happily
followed the big Buick over to the industrial site, drove
down through a narrow access alley and then out behind
into a small parking lot and truck loading area.
Apparently part of a medium heavy industrial zone built
long ago next to a railroad bypass belt line at one time
perhaps at the very edge of the city but now swallowed up
by recent suburban residential sprawl and the
concomitant commercial development; it was a place
surrounded on three sides by multiple-story brick
industrial structures and the fourth side was close-
bounded by a railroad yard raised up on a berm and filled
with blocks and blocks of standing freight cars. A
Saturday and no one was near or apparently in any of the
buildings. The light was very good; the sun bathing the
entire area in hot, shadowless brilliance.

Now a further indication that the teen recruit enjoyed
showing off his great looking body was that even though
his Buick was equipped with a strong A/C system, he had
chosen to keep his shirt off for the drive over. He had
turned on the A/C but not enough to frost his nipples. The
cold air if anything just brought the tips of his tits up to
full tight military alert.

I had him do a series of shirtless poses flexing with arms
behind, arms in front, hands on car, climbing the black
metal external fire escape on one of the red brick
buildings. Because of the angle of the sun, in almost every
shot I took the light bounced back up from the surface of
the parking lot and highlighted his pecs and even his abs,
forming an inverted halo of luminance along the lower
curves, lending a strong third dimensional look to his
handsome torso. The camera liked his smooth tight body
even as much as he liked showing himself to it. Pushing
down inside his dark short cargos there seemed to be the
hint of a rising Marine cock. Mine really had never been
down since I first saw him.

After shooting about 5 minutes I told him I noticed that
not a soul was stirring in any of these buildings and I
wondered if he minded doing a few poses in his plaid
boxers.

No problem!

And very quickly he was folding his cargos and putting
them neatly on the front passenger seat of the shinny
LaSabre. As he ducked into the door opening I could see
that his bent upper body formed almost a complete
inverted U and that it was so tight that his abs and pecs,
indeed the whole inner side of that U was as firm and
tight and as close to his frame as when he was standing
upright. I had a hard time taking my eyes off his V-
tapered back but I did catch what looked like a set of
black handcuffs there on the seat next to where he had
laid his precisely folded pants.

Well, we did another series of photos with him flexing in
his boxers and he was definitely "up" for this, and so was
I.

After the boxer round I asked him about the cuffs and he
said that eventually he was to specialize in field combat
interrogation, had picked up a set of cuffs at a military
surplus store to practice cuffing a few guys he knew while
he was briefly here at home. I asked him if he could put
his cargos back on and would he mind if we got some
shots with the cuffs?

Not a problem!

He smiled back, bent over again into the Buick, grabbed
the cuffs and the cargos and quickly pulled the pants up
his smooth muscular hairless legs.

The dark cuffs made a good photographic image set
against his lightly tanned skin. We did shots with the
hands cuffed in front, hands up behind his head, and
hands cuffed behind. The contrast of the cold flat steel
shape of the cuffs went very well against his curving
muscular forearms and indeed his whole upper body. His
muscles made him look dangerous enough that being
locked into chains was just the right tension leveler. His
muscular build and military look made it seem that he
almost deserved to be cuffed: a body trained-up to destroy,
to kill, and to break things but now safely held in check.
He continued to show a hard-on but we didn't talk about
it. The cargo covered erection was caught in the photos,
he was one well-equipped fucker and it was a good thing
he was chained up and couldn't plug anyone with that
ever-firm late teen prong.

It was neat how the transfer of power had happened, the
first time when he cuffed himself in front; he held the key
to the cuffs in one hand but then placed it on the hood of
the Buick. Then when we went to go with the hands
behind, I just naturally got the key, unlocked him, cuffed
him up behind, and "kept" the key. He was so turned on to
being photographed in his cuffs I doubt if he even noticed.
My cock drooling down into my underpants did notice.

We did a few more shots with his arms locked in various
positions to or around components of the fire escape. Then
we did some more shots with the cargos back folded
neatly in the car and the plaid boxers fully tented out. He
had been in and out of the cuffs several times now and
was quite comfortable with wearing them and with me
holding the key, although again I doubt if it really
registered with him that he was temporarily not in
complete control. Here a stranger he didn't even know
had him black-cuffed in his boxers and he was smiling all
the while.

Finally I took off his cuffs and handed them and the key
back to him. He smiled. Then I asked him if he would
mind doing a couple nude shots. It had now been over half
an hour and although we could hear traffic passing on the
street there was no one here behind these buildings. His
masculine but teen voice said that. oh,. well,. he
probably wouldn't mind doing a nude shot,. or two.; but
his quickly brightened face and sparking eyes told me
that, Wow! He thought I would never ask!

The shoes and sox came off as he bent back into that good
inverted U and then he dropped his boxers, folded them
neatly and put them on the seat of his car next to his
warm dark handcuffs. I barely had time to admire the
muscles contracted in his small high trim naked butt. He
turned around and was pointing up at my face with his
full hard Marine prod. He was sorry he was so erect, but
wondered if I could take some photos of him like that. .

Not a problem!

We didn't discuss it, but I imagined that during boot camp
this young Marine's member had not seen too much cunt
and in fact now that he was back on this quick leave it
was no doubt hard to convince a girl to let him fuck her
when he couldn't stay around for a "relationship".
Probably been some time since that prod had been used,
at least in the "natural" God-intended way. No wonder it
was "up" for some photos.

The pavement under his bare feet was noticeably warm,
but not too much more uncomfortable than walking across
the sand of a beach, he told me.

I enjoyed shooting a series of photos with him full up, half
up, and at ease, although even then his tool always kept a
degree of military alertness, ready for action. He looked
good with his cock in any position. It was then that the
Adam's apple made a couple of slow trips deep down the
front of his strong neck and he quietly suggested that I
might want to get some poses of him naked and in the
cuffs, but only if I wanted to.

Not a problem!

Now it was my turn to secretly think, Wow! I thought he
would never ask!

I wondered if the guy had ever been photographed in
cuffs, or nude. Perhaps not. It is not the sort of thing you
go down to your local Sears and ask the portrait
photographer to do. It might not be the kind of thing you
would even ask a friend to do, but a stranger, maybe a
trusted stranger, yes!

After another round of numerous poses and takes we
finally finished, him gloriously naked, hands cuffed
behind his back palms-out, the dark steel double-locked
down tight to the surface of his wrists limiting any
rotational action to only what the short connecting chain
would allow. He was smiling as if that were the most
normal thing in the world, to be standing outside in the
hot sun naked and cuffed and "up" and talking with
another man and asking if I would send him copies of the
photos. I realized that not only did he like to show his
body off to others; he enjoyed looking at it too. I quickly
jotted down his military address and then I told him that
to cover the costs of the processing and postage I would
bet him. He sort of mumbled a low OK, but his cock
wagged its up and down approval much more
enthusiastically. I doubt if he noticed the movement but
his reproductive organs were showing me he was a
betting man.

The bet would be that I would put him cuffed in the
backseat of his car and belt him down. I would give him
20 minutes to get out. If he made it out, I would cover the
costs of his photos. If he didn't escape in the set time
limit, I would take $25 from his cargos for the processing
fees. It was a physical bet, a dare, a challenge. No Marine
could refuse such an offer, he didn't.

His erection continued to wag in the sun as he thought
the bet through. The cocky jarhead was sure he would be
able to get loose; after all he was a fresh fully trained-up
recruit. It was less than a minute later that he found
himself straddling the hump in his mother's back seat,
chest slightly forward, arms pushed up high into the
small of his back, the waist belt tightly cinched down on
his naked narrow pelvis.

I told him before the count started I had to make a few
adjustments and then I would go across and down to that
McDonald's to get us some Cokes, would be back in 5 or 6
minutes and then watch him complete his 20 minute
"ride". He laughed saying not to rush back that he would
be waiting for me free and out and sitting over on the fire
escape when I came back with the drinks.

I used all the gripping power I had to pull that seat belt
down fast on his lower midsection. In fact his butt was
forced down, deep down into the cloth upholstered bench
and back, full back into the seat back, the soft Fisher
Body foam was completely compressed under his hips and
behind his tight little butt. He really was not feeling too
much pressure himself, the safety restraint was designed
to put the stress on the strong hipbone. With the crash
tested webbing angled down to steel anchor points far
below the cushion mount, the Marine's narrow male hips
were held decisively fast to the chassis of his car.

Since he didn't have any pain from the belt, just some
pressure, he was still laughing with masculine self-
assurance and I'm not sure he even noticed what I was
doing when I checked the small tab on the trailing edge of
each back door to make sure the child lock system was
engaged. Then I went around and opened the driver's
door, ran up all four windows, and pressed the rocker
switch for the child window lock system, again he couldn't
see that last move I made but he did see me reach over to
his neatly folded cargos, grab his keys, and set the door
locks to on. I told him I didn't want any dudes coming up
and messing with his pretty body while I was gone, and
he laughed again as I shut the driver's door, looked at my
watch and yelled through the thick safety glass that the
time had started.

He smiled back, ball sac spread out on the seat there
between his legs the thick cock just barely resting on that
bulging male cushion but mostly pointing up toward the
front seat map lights up there in the ceiling just behind
the top edge of the windshield. He began to pull his trim
torso forward in a small orientally polite bow. His hands
were forced up about half way between his butt and his
shoulder blades due to his hips being jammed hard
against the seat back. He started to twist his upper body
around to bring out his cuffed wrists along one side of his
back.

I got in the Ford and backed out, watching the soft sprung
Buick bucking up and down and rocking from side to side
as a blond high and tight head went bobbing around in
that rear seat, moving everything he could, everything
except his own little rear. I drove over to the MacDonald's,
rushed into the john, dropped my pants and barely had
time to aim my cock at the stall wall as I shot a huge load
thinking of that trim Marine naked, cuffed, hard and
bucking in the back of his Buick. I got the cokes. Left my
car there and I just walked back across the street and up
the alley and around the corner into the factory loading
lot, carrying the two cokes.

I came up behind the Buick and of course the Marine
wouldn't know if I had returned with my car or not, his
field of vision was somewhat limited. His broad shoulders
and how he had to sit all the way back in his seat meant
that he really couldn't turn his head enough to completely
look out the back window.

I don't know if the private had ever had physics but he
soon discovered the mechanical limitation of his situation.
I'm sure going in he thought all he had to do was slide his
hands out from behind his back and reach around and
unlock the belt buckle. Well that would have been true
had the belt been up around his narrow natural waistline.
Might have been true if the belt and been down several
inches lower where he wore his boxers, or 2 inches lower
where he wore his cargos, but that belt was actually way
down across the top edge of pubic hair, just above his hard
sprung cock. I made sure his safety belt was low and
tight, really low and really tight, just the way the sweet
airline hostesses say to fasten them.

From my rear position I couldn't see all the way into the
car, but I could see enough to mentally fill in the rest of
his campaign against the seatbelt. At finding he couldn't
quickly reach the release on the belt, his cock went full
up, not because of any major panic, but because there was
the glimmer that he was going to lose, and a Marine
never wants to lose. Well, he had some time to figure a
way out. Instead of just an upright torso twist, he would
lean over to the side, rotate from that position and bring
his hands down closer to the level of the belt. No problem
here, his body had spent many hours in boot camp
bending and twisting in groaning drillmaster mandated
P.T. But as he leaned over, his body forced his lower
elbow into the seat cushion, and he couldn't bring his
hands even as far around front as when he was sitting
bolt upright. The harder his obliques pulled down on his
torso, the less free movement he had with his upper arms.
The angle was such that he was actually pushing his
hands further out from the release button the closer down
his tight boot trained trunk came to the bottom cushion.

Well, next he tried leaning again but this time going
around the high side of his smooth hairless ribcage. No
use, now the palms out hands were way out of position for
reaching the belt release low down just over his small
neat patch of pubic bush. Doing it on that side was sort of
like trying to lower the lifeboats on the high side of a
listing ocean liner sinking slowly into the sea. He could
move everything, his hands, his fingers, but of course the
cuffs locked tight to his wrists meant that rotation of the
hands and arms was very limited and all things
considered his fingers just didn't have enough reach at
the proper angle to get to that release button, not that he
didn't try, and try hard.

I wasn't sure if it were the muscles contracting, or the
way he was forcing air out of his rib cage by all those
gyrations and compressions, but there were definite heavy
male grunting sounds as the Marine humped and twisted
and bumped his shoulders, arms, hands, fingers, ribs.
Anything that would move above his pelvis he was
pushing into action, pushing to the limit. Even his nipples
were being bumped around riding on those heaving
flexing pecs like little fishing boats caught out in a gale,
clinging desperately to the lower outer edges of his chest
slabs. His gyrating hard tit points like little sailboats with
canvasless masts riding out the fury of a hurricane.

Of course all this leaning and twisting was not done with
abs and upper body muscles alone. His thighs and calves
were hard at work too, his bare feet slipping on the carpet
as he tried to exert his man-force to bend his body to the
release button. The exertion had brought a sheet of sweat
that covered his entire body. In fact the heat in the car
had noticeably gone up, that 95 degrees at the start was
well over 105 now and rising fast. He figured he had
plenty of air, no problem there, but the elevating
temperature of the air was beginning to flash a blinking
yellow caution light in his brain.

Although different in many ways, he was reminded of the
gas mask training in boot camp where he and his buddies
were locked into a room filled with smoke, fumes, and
little air and with the protection removed from their faces
forced to stay there a lot longer than they wanted to. Well,
this was different, there was no mean drill sergeant
keeping him in. He could leave the car at anytime, just as
soon as he got that belt unbuckled. But what if he
couldn't? He couldn't twist enough to see if the
photographer had returned with the drinks yet, and.
right now. he wasn't sure if he could get out!

The moment of doubt sent a stream of ooze out the end of
his now super hard Marine cock and the stream trailed
down in a small thread all the way to the center hump on
the floor. His hands were kept well away from his cock
and balls, after all they couldn't even reach as far as the
belt release button just over his neat small clean pubic
patch, but he was hard and dripping and had no way to do
anything about it. He could only sit there, strong legs
spread wide, looking down at his tool begging him for
some frictional attention. He took a short break in his
workout, just sitting there drooling onto the floor.

Boy was it hot! The temperature would have been going
up anyway, but with his workout generated body heat
spreading out and then bouncing back from the confined
space, it was up past 115 now. He had just had a "melt"
down where his body seemed to go from hard athletic
sweating to maximum fire sprinkler mode. Perspiration
dripping off his jaw line and splashing down onto his pec
plates. Streams of fluid flowing down from his underarms
now slightly more exposed as his arms were pulled back,
his wrists locked tight up behind his back. Because of
their shape and location, his nipple points were serving as
major jumping off points for the two small waterfalls of
fluid streaming down from the top half of his upper body.

Being so lean and tight the young jarhead didn't carry
with him too many stored body fluids and what little
moisture his body did have it was sending up and out of
his skin as fast as it could. That Coke was sure going to
taste good when the photographer got back. But then,
wait a minute! He couldn't hold that drink with his hands
cuffed behind, cuffed palms out, and there didn't seem to
be any place the photographer could set the drink down
where he could bend over enough to reach the straw with
his mouth. Well, it was humiliating enough to be naked,
cuffed and belted into your mother's car, and not be able
to get out, this was one Marine, one proud and cocksure
Marine, who was not going to beg to be fed that drink, No!

He would be loose and out and tanning before the guy
came back, that's for sure. No mere civilian was going to
hold this Marine prisoner. His cock was happy to hear
this; it was anxiously awaiting the tight grip of his now
cuffed up right hand. Free and out! He punctuated that
last thought with the first of his back arch moves.

He was now figuring he could work the belt loose a little
by pushing up on his hips. He had done some wrestling in
high school and in boot camp too, and so he knew he could
support his body weight on just the back of his head and
his heels, he had done that arch many times, even while
another guy was riding on his midsection trying
everything possible to make him put his shoulders down
for the count. Well, in his current situation, he couldn't
use his powerful neck, but his wide-set shoulder blades
were lined up with the top of the seat back, and of course
he had his bare feet free there on the floor below him.

His movement now forced his big pecs up and out. It was
almost like someone had snapped clamps on his nipples
and had run a bungee cord from them up to the central
inside rearview mirror and now he was arching his back
trying to get his tits as far forward as he could to ease the
tension on the sensitive erect points. There was a problem
though: no matter how hard he mashed his blades into
the seat back and used all his back muscles to pull his
trapped hips forward, he couldn't seem to match the same
effort with his legs. The wickedly low seat cushion meant
his knees were bent in an odd angle; he really couldn't
push his hips out away from the seat back with his legs
alone. He could push up some, but not with nearly the
same force he used in wrestling. He experimented with
narrow stance, wide stance, but each way was clearly
futile. He couldn't see his butt muscles but could feel
them at maximum contraction. He cock felt that butt-
clench too, he looked down and saw his cunt-deprived pole
just about harder and higher than he had ever seen it
before. The fact that there was no one around, not a guy,
not a girl, no one touching his privates, was even more
interesting, he was spewing a continuous and every
moment stronger flow of manly slime down onto the floor
of his car, right between the V of his upper legs with those
huge slanting straps of muscle on the top of his thighs
swelled up and pushing and sweating.

I came around the swaying sedan and looked in on a
writhing naked Marine, frantically jerking and twisting
his body, pumping his legs, bending forward, then arching
his back. I put one foot up on the front bumper and
enjoyed the distinctly erotic human bucking motion the
soft sprung car body was making. He still hadn't broken,
quite a Marine. I pointed to my watch and yelled that he
had "10" more minutes to go before he lost. Laughed at
his lack of progress in the effort to liberate his body from
his own car. Heard his muffled shout back that he wasn't
going to lose, I knew what he was trying to say but wasn't
really sure exactly what he said: it is sort of hard to talk
like a human when your mouth is either clenched tight in
a total body full grunt male muscle strain, or wide open
gasping in the 120 degree high humidity air.

I had told him 10 more minutes, implying he had only
gone "10" but of course my watch actually said he had
already gone the 20. He probably didn't notice how long it
had been but was doggedly sticking it out. I stood there
enjoying my refreshing drink and I could see in his eyes
that thirsty look. The request for a quenching beverage
was in his eyes, but not on his lips, flared back with those
ever-greater steam engine like gasps for air. Shouted to
him I had put his drink over on the fire escape and he
could drink it when he got out of the car. On hearing that
he swallowed or tried to.

Well, this was both good and bad news to the Marine. At
least he would not have to humiliate himself by having
that damn photographer hold the paper cup up for him.
But then it would be a few more minutes until he could
get a drink. Just for a moment he realized it might be the
full "10" more minutes. Damn it seemed like he had been
in this chrome trimmed steel sweat box for a half hour or
more, hard to imagine it was only 10 minutes, well if that
was 10, could he hold out for the next ten. Then he
realized there had been no provision in the bet for
quitting early. Even to lose he had to go the full "20"
minutes. Well, he was beginning to think that maybe that
would be the way it would go, he would lose but lose like a
man, taking his full 20 minutes in the searing heat of the
car. Sweat from his whole upper body was streaming in
rivers, cascading down both flat trim muscular sides of his
butt and soaking into the cushion. God was it hot in there,
and still getting hotter.

He now tried the ultimate move. Why hadn't he thought
of it before? If his hands were behind his back, why not
flip over and just bring the hands down to the buckle
release that way? Might take a few minutes to feel how to
work the hands sight unseen, but at least they would be
right over that belt, right in the best position.

This full rotational movement required all his military
P.T.-trained muscles and then some. It would have been
easy with his arms free, but he had to use his side
obliques to bring his shoulders around to just past 90
degrees with the back of the seat. Now a thinner man, one
with less lat spread, one of beanpole proportions might
have had a easier time of it, but that narrow recruit waist
flared out and up into very wide trained-up shoulders. His
shoulder blades had to be tilted down about 45 degrees
with the floor of the car in order for him to have any hope
of rotating all the way around in the belt. His legs and
feet were struggling on their own, exploring new ways to
bend.

But finally he realized that he just couldn't bend back 90
degrees from his hips. Certain wrestling holds like the
backbreaker, where the one guy is bounced chest-up on
the knee of the other guy as one hand grabs the racked-
out guy's throat pushing his upper body down toward the
floor while the other hand is holding and pushing on his
helpless upper legs, well, even in those cases, the bent guy
screams out his humiliating submission long before the
angle of body parts would come anywhere close to what
that car seat required.

Now the Marine might be able to get that sort of sharp
angle up at the nipple level, the pecs, but he just couldn't
lie belted tight into the back seat of a Buick with his ass
up and cock down. The belt was holding him too close to
the back of the seat for him to do any good here. The bone
joint connection between his legs and pelvis below and
between his pelvis and his spinal column above would not
allow it. Well, it only took a few minutes of thrashing feet
and straining upper body side muscles to get back into a
more comfortable if still hopelessly trapped seated
position. He took another small break, his magnificent
chest rising and falling hard and fast as he was struggling
with his air supply, skin glistening like he had coated
himself with posing oil, cock still up and oozing.

The bright sun had moved in the last half hour and now
there was a little shade on the first steps of the fire
escape. As I sat there continuing to sip my drink, I could
see the jarhead's Adam's apple sliding up and down, up
and down, and realized how dry he must be, how he was
swallowing and feeling the dehydration coming in his
throat. That Adam's apple almost the size of a baseball
riding up well in front of his tendon straining neck. It
looked like a busy elevator in a Hyatt hotel sliding up and
down, up and down along its straining tendon framed
path. The sweat glands now in full pump. As the body
fluids poured out, you could almost see the skin on his
body shrinking down even tighter. That skin was pulling
down on his body about as tight as they wrap those blank
CDs and audiocassettes they ship in from the orient.

As the young man struggled in his Flint built sauna, I
wondered what would happen if he got down to the point
where he could no longer sweat. I guess that would be
pretty bad, a serious core temperature emergency, but I
wondered if he might go into a dog mode, the hanging
tongue syndrome. Well, I thought I saw his tongue
hanging down there now. The way he was belted in, he
could take in all the air he wanted, his very tightly
defined upper body looked great, his muscles contracted
hard, pushed his chest up and out, helped him inhale a
maximum amount of the super heated air; 130 degree air
rushing in his now slack jaw past his loose hanging
tongue.

Over in the shade sitting on the fire escape I finished my
drink, crushing down the empty paper cup into a less
than fistful compact mass. But watching him sweat and
work made me so thirsty I had to start in on his Coke too.
I sat there waiting for the "20" minutes to be up.

Inside the car, the Marine, and only because he was a
Marine, had not given up. If he couldn't get to the buckle
or stretch it he was going to break that belt. Of course GM
had installed first quality belts meeting all the
government standards. If you have a belt that will hold a
350 pound pregnant women safe and fast in her seat in a
50 mph head on crash, well, what can 150 pounds of
firmly seated narrow hipped teen muscle do, even if those
muscles are controlled by the high and tight topped head
of very determined never-say-die Marine?

He had sort of moved on from working the belt release but
was concentrating now on the car doors and the windows.
All he had to do was angle his legs around, lift them up,
like a ballet dancer, and use his bare toes to work the
window control button, why hadn't he thought of that
before? Be breathing cool air in a few seconds now; and
revived; he could go back to the battle of the belt buckle.

Now he really had not been able to see what he was doing
with his hands and fingers, those upper extremities being
locked tight behind his back, palms out, in his very own
cuffs, but at least he was used to working with his hands,
and although blind and in reverse, could have worked the
belt release button had he been able to get near it. On the
other hand, using his toes and feet, well if using his cuffed
hands was like steering a wave runner, trying to
maneuver his legs and feet was more like docking an
aircraft carrier without tugs. He could move his legs and
feet but he didn't have that fine tuned control he did with
his hands. God! How do those guys who don't have any
arms learn to toe a keyboard or play the piano? It was a
major and time-consuming job getting to that window
control button and then applying the right pressure in the
right direction. His gasping now rasping deep throat
pants told him he didn't have too much time to be fooling
around like a girl with his legs up in the air wiggling his
toes.

He finally made contact! But after now reaching that
button he pushed it and pulled it with his big toe but the
window didn't move. It took him a good deal of effort to
swing his body around to attack the other rear door
window control. But no luck there either. As he realized
that the baby safety control was set to keep any person in
the back seat from lowering the windows, he remembered
the rocker switch was way up front on the driver's door
arm rest. He concluded it was impossible for a cuffed hip-
belted jarhead in the back seat to reach that release
control switch. His chance for escape became that much
slimmer, even as he was getting slimmer from the
dehydration. As these thoughts crossed his mind, he felt
his cock wagging and the drool flow increasing. He so
much wanted to win, to get out, but his cock knew already
he was trapped; he would be forced into a humiliating
naked cock-hard defeat.

The Marines had not only trained his body, but trained
his mind in quick field-based real-time problem-solving
and he had most of his mental skills still going for him as
he moved on now from the window control to the door
handle.

I'm sure the private was too busy to notice but his legs
were really beautiful, the calves bulging trying to rotate
the slender but linear manly foot and toe around to the
door handle, the upper leg muscles taut as on the statue
of a kneeling Greek athlete, trying to get that last few
inches of movement up from his slim hips so firmly locked
down deep into the bench seat, hips all the way up hard
against the back cushion. To see him working his lower
extremities was almost like watching a martial artist or
top ballet star or even a trained gymnast in full Olympic
performance mode.

But no matter how he worked his feet, and he could
actually reach the door handle, he couldn't get it to
release the door. Then in his dehydrating haze he
gradually realized it was a two-step operation, unlock the
lock and then open the door. Well, with even more effort
and he about dislocated his hip on this one, he was able to
bring his leg up so the foot just grazed the lock lever. He
did move the lock lever up to the unlock position. Good,
should have thought of this "10" minutes ago, he grunted,
and gasped and then twisted his legs down to work those
toes on the door release handle. He could barely see what
he was doing; with that neatly trimmed blond head tilted
over, salty Marine sweat was rushing into his eyes,
burning them into a blinking squint.

Outside watching I was realizing the safety engineers had
designed those Buick doors to stay locked to keep babies
from falling out, they didn't have baby-faced Marine boots
in mind, but their system was just as effective none the
less. The full-muscled trained-up soldier would never be
able to open either back door without first getting to the
main electric door-lock button, but that was "safely"
sitting well out of his range of movement up there forward
on the driver's door.

The rapidly melting jarhead tried brute force. He really
couldn't kick completely but he tried as hard as he could,
and the safety engineers had him again, strong steel
girders built right inside the door and a government
mandated latch mechanism that would hold the door tight
to the car body even after a freight train rammed it. What
could one bare foot held at a glancing angle do? He could
get some of both feet on one side of the back seat floor
area, but could not move his hips up enough or have
enough play in his joints to get both feet to bring any real
double simultaneous pressure on one door. In fact he
couldn't just sit there locked in the center of the bench
and push on both doors at once, no, only one door at a
time, and with one leg and not much at that.

Through all this leg workout, his thighs had been nudging
and mashing and slamming his big ball sac around on the
seat there below his tool and the tool itself was jerked
around shoved up by the ball sac and around by the upper
inside edges of his thighs, not to mention the ever
changing angle of the front plane of his pelvis. The cock
pointing out first to one front window then swinging over
to point at the other, then down sort of drawing an
imaginary bead on the drivers door armrest, then flopping
stiffly over to focus on the front passenger door armrest,
flinging a little sweat and lots of stringing drool all across
the rear floor of the big Buick.

The Marine had no new ideas, just to keep bucking and
twisting and pushing. That often does work, try
everything again, come at slightly different angles, you
never know. By now the efforts were more automatic, his
body was running on Marine remote control, much like on
those 25 mile full-pack runs in the heat of the South
Carolina swamps. This freed up his mind to think about
that damn photographer. When he got out of his car, that
guy had better be nowhere around. He was going to really
work him over. But wait a minute, it now seemed that
really he couldn't get out without the help of that guy.
And cuffed up he would only be able to use his feet. He
could sure try a few kicks with the feet.but as soon as
the cuffs were off, pow! He would show that tricky
photographer a few close hand combat moves and it
wouldn't be pretty. He could see his right and then his left
fist slamming into that guy's gut, pushing down in past
his muscle shield. He could even feel how the first few
punches would sort of bounce off the guy's abs, but then
there would be that sweet feeling of the whoosh as his
jabs would begin to sink in deep into the belly. Thinking
about how much fun it was going to be watching that guy
fold up, throw up and collapse, the boot's cock now almost
in pain from being full up for the "twenty" minutes,
tensed in a tip-burning tingle and then suddenly shot a
huge load, covering the front seat console and the floor
mount gear shift; and then slowly in the heat the semen
partially drained down.

Wow, was that good, but he looked around and he knew
he was going to have to clean up his car when he got out,
the whole back seat now was as wet as if he had taken a
fire hose to it, and that back floor carpet was slippery
from the heavy amount of male slime he had been
depositing continuously as he was doing his isometrics
there belted in the seat. There was work ahead for him
before he picked up his mother at 7 p.m.

But his end was coming now; the electrolyte level was
way out of balance now. Just when he was about to pass
out, totally drained, he saw the photographer approach
the car. He anxiously waited for the door to open, very
humiliated that he lost the bet, he put his gaze down, best
not to look the guy in the eye, better to look down, and
then he saw that pool of cum soaking into the carpet and
the bands of semen still hanging down from the gear shift
and he was so ashamed that the guy would see how he
shot his load, what kind of weirdo does that, gets off on
being cuffed and held prisoner in a sweat box?

Well, there was nothing he could do about that. In fact
there was little he could do about anything. He could
breathe, but for how much longer? He could kick a little
and buck, move his fingers, but he couldn't hide the
evidence of his load shoot, couldn't tend to his thirst.

He could barely hear the photographer who was just
outside the car, didn't even hear him drive up. Just had to
wait until the photographer opened that door. He was
trapped until that happened. How did he let that guy put
him in such total bondage? And with his own cuffs and in
the seat belt in his car?

That guy used only things the Marine already had. Talk
about simple but effective bondage. Well, at least he got a
good cardiovascular workout today. Mostly isometrics, but
then he really didn't have much choice in that either. He
also had a very good chance to hone skills in problem
solving in the field under stress, a lot of stress. And by the
way, he would have to remember this when he got back to
the Marines, training for military prisoner-of-war
interrogations. An enemy prisoner would be ready to do
just about anything to get out of this trap.

The Marine's Adam's apple dropped deep down his neck
as he gasped to himself, "so would I."

I came up toward the car as the recruit bowed his head in
submission, not daring to look me in the eyes, not worthy
of facing his captor. I acted like I was looking at my watch
now showing he had been locked in his belt at least 40
minutes. I yelled in. "Just about 3 minutes left, but I
really have to go now. When you get out of your belt you'll
find your Coke over on the fire escape. Don't worry about
paying me the $25; it was well worth that for me to see
you doing your workout. Have a nice day!" I smiled as I
walked out of the Marine's line of sight.

The hip-strapped jarhead quickly reviewed his options for
escape, for self-release. They didn't look good, he felt like
this was it, and he couldn't really kill himself either, just
had to sit there naked, cock still up hard, cuffed and
belted in his own car broiling and waiting to die of the
heat and exhaustion and dehydration.

No one had been back there in "twenty" minutes and it
looked like no one would show up until Monday morning.
The roar of the street traffic and the distance back in from
the road, plus the raised windows meant that even yelling
out his loudest and manliest scream, no one would hear
him, and with this thirst, he really didn't have a very loud
yell now anyway. A few dry sweaks were about all that
muscular teen could force out of his heat-parched voice
box.

140 degrees now and still rising. The electrolyte problem
was now even more serious. Legs, calves, arms were now
beginning to cramp in their ion-depleted state. Where in
the past he had tried to use his muscles to escape this
trap, now his own muscles were working against him,
torturing him in spasms of pain. He wished he could move
his hands along his legs to soothe the burn, but could
barely twist his wrists now still inescapably held behind
the small of his naked heaving back. He was getting so
weak that he was even losing a grip on some of the
muscles he had not yet worked. As death came ever closer
he was horrified to feel deep inside his lower upper body,
behind that corded 8 pac, to feel some movement, muscles
pushing and other muscles opening. Nausea flooded his
senses as he tried to suppress what was a full projection
vomit stream, but to his horror he felt the movement now
flowing not up but down. He tried to hold his anal
sphincters closed, but the low electrolyte and his near
total exhaustion went against any rectum defense. It was
like being locked down in a roller coaster clanking up the
steep incline for that first big drop. He really would like to
get out of the coaster car, to stop the train, to cancel the
trip up to the drop, but there was nothing he could do
about it. He would never do anything this gross, and
never anything like this to his mother's new car, but he
really was not in control of anything anymore. He was
just along for the ride, he body doing its pre-death
purging now and in spite of his hips being pressed tight
into the seat cushion, he felt his intestines push out a hot
full dump: impregnating the upholstery, then pooling
there under his tight little butt; the stain on the seat
slowly spreading out.

That back seat was a disaster zone, as was the center
consol, but riding neatly on the front passenger seat were
the precisely folded plaid boxers, the dark cargos, and on
the floor were the carefully placed shoes and sox,
undisturbed, and calmly waiting for their owner to pull
them back on his smooth trim taut tan body.

He was both horrified and shamed and he rolled his eyes
up ready to finally give up when without his permission
there was a rush in his still thick prod. His cock now
celebrated the second half of the jarhead's last rites; he
felt more than actually saw his pole spray a long shot of
dehydration-yellowed piss up onto the central forward
consol. For this Marine the devil was out sweeping clean
the welcome mat but at least going down to hell would
mean cooler air than he was being broiled in now. He
might be seated in a full-sized four-door sedan but he was
as restricted as if he were stuffed into a dog cage, or a
small tin prison camp sweatbox. An adult male at the
peak of his physical power and yet held helpless as a baby
in a child car seat. His only option left was the baby
option; he bowed his head in shame and with infantile
wails he cried and cried and cried.

When I heard that wailing and saw the blond high and
tight head slump forward and saw that those strong bold
masculine body movements were now down to a few
cramping twitches, I knew I had him. I had broken him.
And realizing that I felt my hard cock pulse in my
underpants as it pumped my load.

I saw him bent, broken, and crying as I walked up to the
car. The Marine was just barely alive but he was alive, he
had survived the ordeal. He lost the bet, but he had taken
it like a man. Only in these last few minutes had he
begun crying like a baby, and that was understandable.
He had ridden his car to near heat stroke and never asked
to be released, never begged to be let out of his bet, he had
taken it like a Marine.

I wondered how he would greet me, if he would be angry,
happy, or conceivably in such a daze that he might think I
were his drill instructor or perhaps a fellow Marine.

I clicked the remote locks and pulled open the rear door. A
steam bath of superheated air with the stench of piss,
cum, sweat and shit rolled out. It was only the flick of my
finger and his belt unlocked. A simple flick, even a 5-year-
old girl could have done it, but not that full muscled max
boot trained jarhead cuffed and stuffed for almost an hour
with his hips fast to the car frame.

He was so weak, and cramping so much I had to pull him
out by his wide pumped shoulders and then he fell to his
knees; his now unfocusing eyes stared up at me, his
parched lips slowly moving, and I noticed that Marine
mouth was right at my crotch. In his state, too much fluid
might have been detrimental, but I realized I might be
able to help him out a little. I pulled down my zipper and
his lips quickly surrounded my cock. I doubt if he knew
where he was or what he was doing, probably close to
shock. But he was continuing in that baby mode, he had
stopped wailing but was now sucking down hard on his
baby bottle, my cock.

I didn't know if he had ever sucked a cock before, or had
ever wanted to, but he was now sucking mine. In his
semi-conscious state he was not using much of his tongue,
and fortunately not much teeth, but the lips were
gripping my member in a desperate tight clasp and his
"pull" of suction was about the most I have ever felt a
guy's mouth deliver. I guess Marines are trained in desert
survival and in using urine to keep going. I'm not sure
they train using the "direct" delivery method, but since
his beverage cup was over at the fire escape I went with
what was at hand, my cock down his throat.

I must say it was very difficult for me to help him out.
Even though I had just shot a load in my pants, the
desperate pull of his mouth, and the look of this
handsome man, naked, cuffed, on his knees worshiping
before me, well, my cock came up just too hard to piss
through. I sort of regretted having cum already but then I
didn't realize I would get to plug his mouth. Well, one
should never really regret getting off a load. I guess I
relaxed just enough finally that I was able to start a flow
and give him a little urine to help lubricate his dry throat.
It was only fair really, after all, part of what I was
pumping into him was his own Coke.

This recycled liquid helped bring him back a notch or two
from the heat prostration.  After a few gasps of the cooler
90 degree air he was able to stand, naked, cuffed, silent,
bowing and broken beside his own car. I was pretty sure
he was still mentally on some boot camp survival drill,
still surviving, but just barely. I heard him mumbling a
sir, and I began to verbally put him down for his lack of
bowel movement control and all this brought him to more
humbling mumbles and sirs.

His nice trim butt was humiliatingly covered with a thin
layer of his own reeking waste. He looked like a baby who
had dumped in his diapers. I found his A-shirt and used it
to wipe clean his baby smooth rear. I doubt if he would
miss that A, doubt if he really used a shirt all that much
anyway, I tossed it into the back seat of the sedan. The
baby-faced baby-wailing butt-wiped Marine just stood
there head hanging down with another sir!

I got the Buick fired up, set the A/C on full, ran down all
the windows and the stench began to lessen, but the car
would need a major cleaning. I told him his drink was
over on the fire escape, but up on the fourth level. In his
near death fog he could only think of quenching his thirst.
Perhaps he even heard my "suggestion" that his drink
was on the fire escape to actually be an order to run up
the fire escape. It would be something the Marines would
do, just barely recovered from near death and then off and
running to climb 4 flights of stairs, and without a
complaint, sir!

Forgotten were any plans to jump me; didn't consider
anything other than trying to get that liquid. The Marine
was not sure he could make it even to the fire escape and
perhaps not up the stairs, but of course didn't tell that to
me. That never-give-up mind-set was coming back, sir!

Actually he really never did give up, did he? So this was
just a continuation, then, of his endurance training drill.
He hadn't completed it, he wasn't home free, but he was
still in the game, he was alive, he hadn't given up. He was
fighting on. His balls and cock would live to shoot another
day.

He began a slow staggering jog over to the escape, hands
still locked in the small of his back, his freshly cleaned
high tight little butt clenching and unclenching in
coordinated symphony with his double-peaked muscular
calves. It took him some time for his bare feet to negotiate
the grid steps, cooler at the bottom but very hot as he got
up past the shaded part. As he reached the top step, he
got down on his knees and then bent down in that famous
inverted U, his body even tighter and even trimmer than
before. Butt high up in the air, head down, his parched
lips grasped the straw and . he sucked in. about one
swallow of hot water diluted with a small amount of cola.

He looked down to try to gasp something at me, to shout
down at me to ask where was the full cool refreshing
content of his beverage cup, but to his horror he saw me
in the driver's seat of his mom's car, waving and telling
him that when he wanted to go home, he would find the
Buick parked across the street at the McDonald's. If the
lot were full over there, then I would just park it on the
street somewhere, maybe 3 or 4 blocks in from the fast
food place. Sort of depended if I could stand the rear seat
stench that long.

The Marine quickly noticed that my Ford was no longer in
the industrial parking lot; in fact no other car was there.
Only if the boot were to dive off the fire escape head first
with hands cuffed behind from the fourth floor would he
be able to make it to the LaSabre now smoothly
accelerating down the narrow access drive between the
industrial buildings. He knew his shoes and sox, his
clothes, his money, his car and the keys to his tightly
double-locked black steel cuffs were pulling out now into
traffic and heading down the busy street.

He stood up, a little more revived now from the small sip
of diluted cola, almost ready to try to run down the stairs
even in his cuffs to try to catch his car, but then realized
his situation. Well, if the guy left his car over at the fast
food lot, perhaps he could wait until dark, and try to
sneak across the street and get it. Would it be unlocked?
Could he hide out for 5 or 6 more hours here without
being seen? Was there any water nearby he could get to
drink now? What was his mom going to say when he was
late in returning her car? How would he clean up the shit
in the back seat? If the car wasn't in the MacDonald's
what was it going to be like searching out 7 or 8 square
blocks of the area running around naked and cuffed?
Could he work his cuffs down over his butt? Would he be
able to unlock his cuffs when he did get to his car? How
would he deal with anybody he met along the way? How
would he explain his nudity and cuffs, and hard-on? And
maybe that photographer would drive the Buick
somewhere where he could never find it.

He thought he was humiliated enough already but then
began thinking about this latest turn of events, the
likelihood that he would be doing some barefoot naked
street running and the probability of not being able to use
his hands to shield his privates. What if he had to enlist
the aid of another guy to help him get his car back? What
did he now have to offer in payment? Just his mouth and
his hole! As he imagined how it might be, another guy
fucking him hard up his tight little butt, he looked down
and saw his cock up at full military attention and felt
another cum load fire out the end and drop down the 4
floors into the parking lot below.

A few blocks away, I pulled over to the curb, put the
Buick in park, windows down, A/C blasting. I opened my
fly, my hand enjoyed a few quality minutes with my
throbbing gun as I decided if I should double back to the
high and tight, or just leave his GM car here where I was
stopped, grab my Ford and head on back home. In my
head I saw the mental videotape replay of the cute recruit
climbing that fire escape, saw his firm narrow high little
butt, and I did sort of want to check out his hole. The
sudden blast of my shot coating the LaSabre's instrument
panel, caught me by surprise. Too bad I hadn't had
enough time to build up a decent load back in the parking
lot when I was down that guy's taut muscular throat.

I thought I remembered passing a car detailing place on
the way to the mall, maybe I could get the Marine's car
cleaned up for him and then return it, if he were still
there waiting. By that time, I'm sure I would be ready to
shoot again. On the other hand, would the Marine
appreciate my cleaning and returning his car or would he
prefer to finish out the field stress survival test in his own
way? I could return to the parking lot right now and
continue to add to the recruit's educationally "fulfilling"
short leave experiences. But perhaps some dudes from the
new suburb along the far side of railroad line would be
taking a short cut over the tracks and through the
industrial parking lot on their way to a big Mac. A couple
of clean fresh jock buddies too young to drive but old
enough to get it up. They might want to have some fun
using the boot camp buffed high and tight too. I didn't
want to be selfish.

The Marine climbed back down off the fire escape flexing
his butt muscles as he carefully negotiated the burning
steps, moving on the balls of his bare feet, his balance off
a little with his hands cuffed behind his back. Eventually
he was out in the middle of the parking lot, drinking from
the pool of water left by the Buick's A/C, drinking on his
knees, hands behind him, using his tongue, drinking like
a dog. But further back between his legs his male member
was full-streaming, excited at the prospects of jogging
down the drive and out onto the busy street, looking for
his car bare balled and along the way perhaps having to
take a real man up his hole. Not needing to hurry, the
chained nude humiliated jarhead kneeled down in his
precum, passive, waiting, the hot sun highlighting the
"high" part of his blond haircut, the strong summer rays
also beaming down to his tool drool pool and then
reflecting back up illuminating his underside: his 8 pac;
his nippled pecs; his Adam's apple and his strong male
jaw line. The Marine had been put through a horrible
test, and one that was not yet over, but he had taken it
like a man, and now being naked, cuffed, thirsty and
abandoned, well, solving all those problems would be a lot
easier than it had been trying to reach that seatbelt
release button.

As he bobbed up and down to dog-lap a few more tongue-
fulls of liquid left from his car's A/C condenser, down
between his strong muscle strapped thighs his still
unstroked teen-hard cock jumped up parallel with the
blacktop of the parking lot, pointing stiffly toward his
chin, his freshly wiped long-virgin hole feeling UV rays for
its first time winked open and clamped down a couple
times, his tight-locked palms-out wrists actually were
riding pretty comfortably now up there on the small of his
back.

He considered his situation. He had had a good workout.
He really didn't have anything scheduled for the rest of
the afternoon; he was getting a nice tan.

-------------------
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[Maletrain@aol.com]
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