Date: Thu, 27 Nov 2008 19:13:51 -0500
From: John Ellison <paradegi@sympatico.ca>
Subject: The Landing - Chapter 4

This story contains situations and scenes of graphic sex between consenting
males. All legal disclaimers apply. If this topic offends you, do not read
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Copyright 2008 by John Ellison

Additional works publish in Nifty in the Military Category:

The Phantom of Aurora
The Boys of Aurora
Aurora Tapestry
The Knights of Aurora
Aurora Crusade

The "Aurora" books are a series and should be read in sequence.

A Sailor's Tale

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The Landing

Chapter Four


	My evening with Wade Hampton stretched into three weeks of sex,
sex, and more sex. Wade Hampton was insatiable, and to be truthful, I
wasn't too far behind. Let's face it, when sex is available, on an hourly
basis, you don't sniff and walk away like an altered tomcat!
	Wade and I spent every night trying different ways to bring each
other off. We tried frottage, we tried "hot-dogging", we sixty-nined
. . . you name it and we did it, except for "it". Much to Wade's vocal
disgust, I refused to let his pecker anywhere near my hole, and I wouldn't
do him, not because I didn't want to, but because it would not be fair.
	Wade Hampton pouted, Wade Hampton grumbled, Wade Hampton bitched,
moaned and dripped, but I was as stubborn as he was. My first time would be
with Charlie Pegram and that was all there was to it! Wade Hampton muttered
something about keeping his big mouth shut, but I ignored him, and to make
up for my refusal I took him to crashing orgasms. He then complained that
he had created a monster, but still spread his legs.
	Our nocturnal activities did not go unnoticed, especially by Mam
Berta. She might have been old, but she wasn't stupid, and she had sons at
home, so she knew what was going on. Let's face it, sex can be messy, and
boys are not the neatest critters on the planet. Mam Berta said nothing to
me. I suppose to her way of thinking what Wade and I were doing was a rite
of passage that I would outgrow. Let's face it, boys have been doing each
other since the first cave man noticed the pecker on another cave
man. Being a mother herself, Mam Berta had ignored the stains on her sons'
sheets, and Philip Charles', and Damian Lee's, and she ignored them on
mine. She did not, however, have any intention of cleaning up yet another
sin bin.
	The fourth day of what would become Wade Hampton's extended visit,
Mam Berta called me down to the laundry room. On the old, pegged-oak floor
was a pile of bedding. She pointed at a separate pile. "Lincoln freed the
slaves, little man, and I ain't about to clean up after Caligula!" Then she
added, "I got me enough troubles gettin' the stains out of your
underpants!"
	Thoroughly embarrassed, I got the message, hunted up a jug of
bleach, a box of laundry powder, and did my own sheets. As an afterthought,
I also threw in my briefs, which were white, like the sheets, and so there
was no danger of me screwing the laundry up.
	Mam Berta never mentioned the sheets again, not to me, or to anyone
else for that matter. My mother would have fainted, I'm sure, but she
continued on her rounds and never noticed that I did my own
laundry. Father, busy as always with the hospital, the clinic, and his
practice, never paid attention to the domestic side of the house and as
long as dinner was on the table and the place clean, he was happy.
	Life with Wade Hampton was anything but boring. The sex aside, we
spent pleasant days, idling away the sunny hours. Some afternoons we would
pack a lunch and grab a rowboat, pull into our fishing spots, and drop our
lines in the water, drifting slowly in the current. If the fish weren't
biting, which they weren't in the summer heat, Wade Hampton would liven up
the day by pulling down my shorts and take my pecker into his mouth. I
always returned the favor and counted the day fulfilled if we orgasmed two
or three times each. The fish we caught were a bonus.
	Some mornings we would go horseback riding, wandering the trails
that meandered through the pine woods on the east bank of the
Cooper. Usually we rode with Sinjin and the Conynghams. Sinjin, I noticed
was very quiet during these rides, although he kept glancing at Wade
Hampton and a adjusting his package. Tristan Conyngham noticed this
activity and usually ended up in a fit of giggles. His brother, Damian,
would roll his eyes and shake his head. I also noted that Sinjin's demand
to "Suck my dick" was conspicuous in its absence.
	I wondered about this. Of all the guys, only Sinjin had been the
recipient of Wade's favors. Sinjin hadn't mentioned what had happened,
hadn't complained to anyone about getting his dick sucked, and in fact was
conspicuously silent during the rides. Wade had warned me that some guys
would suffer pangs of guilty conscience after having sex with another
boy. All our lives we'd been warned about "nasty boys" who did things to
other boys, warned that we would burn in Hell if we did such things, and
would become abominations.
	Wade Hampton never seemed to be bothered. He didn't give a damn
what the guys thought about him, and if they wanted to pass up the chance
to blow a load, that was their problem, not his. He was an omnivore when it
came to pleasuring other boys, and I was not surprised when two or three
times during his stay he slipped from my bed and went off to visit with
Damian Lee. Once I followed and listened at the door to Damian's
room. >From the grunting I assumed that Damian was giving Wade what I
wouldn't. I wasn't bothered at all, really. I wasn't in love with Wade,
although I liked him, a lot, and the sex was great. I also knew that Wade
Hampton would never be happy with just one boy in his life. Sex was a great
adventure to him, and every male a potential conquest.
	Damian Lee aside, Wade Hampton more or less behaved himself. We
still hung out with the guys, and we still went skinny dippin' almost every
afternoon, but Wade never made a move. The other guys didn't seem to be
bothered in stripping in front of him or playing, as we always did, grab
ass and the like. I did notice that the guys seemed to glance hopefully in
Wade's direction whenever they lay around, tweaking their little
peckers. Wade pretended not to notice, but I knew he did.
	About a week later, as we lay in bed, enjoying our afterglow, I
asked Wade point blank if he knew the other guys were looking for a little
bone relief. He assured me that he had "studied the view", and lapsed into
silence. I wondered, briefly, what he was up to and then it hit me.
	"You're gonna do 'em!" I accused.
	"Yep," admitted Wade with a grin. "Gonna make some good ol' country
boys very happy."

******

	The next day, as we walked down toward the swimming hole, I
wondered how Wade would begin his campaign to seduce my friends, and how he
would have the time! There were eight guys, after all, and even given their
youth and inexperience, blowing a load usually takes a few minutes. Or so I
thought.
	Another thing I wondered about was if the guys would consent to
having their peckers sucked in full view of each other. Sinjin had never
really had a chance to protest when Wade pounced on him, and while we all
never objected to jerking off in front of each other, having your first act
of boy-with-boy sex in full view might not be something you'd want to do.
	Then there was the very real fact that Wade Hampton, with the
exception of Sinjin, never initiated the act. He justified his blowing
Sinjin by saying that Sinjin had asked him to. This was technically
correct, although I doubt Sinjin had actually thought that someone would
take him up on his demand to "suck my dick". Anyway, I wondered how the
guys, and Wade, would handle the mass deflowering.

******

	The morning of the fateful day began normally, or as normally as it
had become since Wade Hampton came to stay. We had our morning pee,
showered together and fooled around, dressed and then went down to
breakfast.
	Breakfast was not a formal affair at all. We sat around the old
wooden table in the kitchen and Mam Berta dished up bacon, eggs, sausages,
grits and toast. The room was always redolent with the intoxicating scents
of finely cooked food, and Mam Berta never skimped on the victuals. She was
a great believer in the old adage that breakfast was the most important
meal of the day. We were allowed to eat as much as we wanted, although we
were never allowed coffee. Mam Berta kept a pot of the stuff bubbling away
on the stove, but we were never allowed anything more than a sniff of the
delicious brew. For some reason Mam Berta was firmly convinced that little
boys should drink milk! Nothing Wade Hampton, or I, said, made a whit of
difference. No matter how much we wheedled, we drank milk!
	Usually, as we gorged ourselves, Damian Lee would wander in looking
to be fed and watered. He always appeared wearing a T-shirt and wrinkled
boxers - his normal sleeping attire. He always sat in a chair opposite to
Wade and me, and he always sat with his legs spread, affording us an
excellent view of his family jewels as they always seemed to pop out of the
cotton covering. On most mornings we had a fine view of the pink, plump
head of his pecker, which rested over his plump, full balls, which were
contained in a wrinkled, hair-covered sack, peeking seductively out of his
boxers.
	Being a good brother, Damian Lee always saw us looking and kindly
adjusted himself, giving us a full-on view.
	I have to admit that Damian Lee was a proud hangin' man, and I
envied Wade Hampton for having made it with my brother. I knew that I
should not have been thinking the things I was, but I'll be honest and say
that if Damian Lee had not been my brother I would have humped him in a
Charleston minute!
	We always waited until Damian Lee finished eating, and the floor
show ended. Since Mam Berta didn't like her kitchen crowded with
inquisitive and obnoxious boys, Wade and I would then wander into town. We
would stop at the café for our morning ration of caffeine, greet the old
men who were always there, and cross over to the square where we would sit
under a live oak tree and watch the world go by.
	As we sat and sipped our coffee, Wade Hampton would comment on the
passersby. If the passerby was young, and male, he would play one of two
games. The first was "Boxers or Briefs". As most of the younger men still
clung to the imagined security of tighty-whiteys, and most of the older men
wore boxers, I couldn't see the point. Wade Hampton disagreed. As it was
high summer, just about everybody wore shorts, big baggy things that
revealed little. Others wore blue jeans, tight, and ass hugging. The blue
denim material also revealed little. It was so thick that a guy could have
been wearing haircloth drawers and we wouldn't have known!
	Wade Hampton thought otherwise. He insisted that he could tell by
the bulge, or lack of it, if a guy was wearing tightys or boxers. The one
compacted the family jewels, the other let everything hang loose, as it
were. While I could never tell, and frankly grew bored with crotch
watching, the game kept Wade Hampton happy, and it was a red letter morning
when he spotted someone he insisted was going "commando". He could always
tell, he said, by the way a guy's pecker hung down the side of his leg.
	When Wade Hampton spotted someone he thought was going commando, he
would groan and gently feel his crotch. If the specimen was a hulking farm
boy fresh in from the country, Wade would moan and I knew what was coming
next.
	This was "Is he or isn't he?"
	Wade Hampton played this particular game all the time. He was
obsessed with peckers, even those firmly hidden under layers of cotton and
denim. I pointed out to him that it was impossible to tell one way or the
other, and that he was pissing up a gum tree. I also pointed out that at
one time or another I'd seen most of the young dicks in town, all Wade had
to do was ask!
	Wade demurred. He liked the thrill of discovering uncharted
peckers. He had a theory that clipped guys looked better, and had better
complexions. He also said that according to his research - ha! - they had a
habit of unconsciously grabbing themselves, or giving their unclipped
peckers a little squeeze every now and then.
	Anyway, we would sit there, and every so often Wade would poke me
with his elbow. "Boxers, and he isn't!" he would proclaim, sure of
himself. I would look, and if I knew the boy wandering by, I would deflate
Wade quickly. "Briefs, he is, and I saw it last year at the Tri-County Fair
when he pissed beside me in the men's room!"
	I would opine knowledgably. I was on pretty firm ground, and
cheated a bit. I knew that just about every boy in town, with the exception
of the Smiths, and two of the four Blake brothers had been visited by the
doctor (usually my father) two or three days after birth. I was also on
fairly firm ground when it came to country boys. After all, I swam, nekkid,
with them three times a week in school, and I could, if pressed, tell Wade
which of them had been attended to in the hospital, my father's office or,
in three cases that I knew of, the kitchen table!
	Wade Hampton was flogging a dead horse, really, for at that time in
the South, circumcision was a rite of passage for eighty to ninety percent
of all new born males. There were exceptions, of course, notably the
country boys who lived on farms or whose daddies share-cropped on one of
the larger plantations such as the Izard place out near Lake Moultrie, the
Gadsden place near Berkeley, or the last remaining Hampton plantation,
which was actually across the Cooper River. These boys were "home born",
sometimes with the attendance of a midwife, most often with the help of the
neighbor ladies. Some I knew, some I did not.
	Many of the boys were home schooled, as they had to be. Tending the
farm, doing the chores, was far more important to them than schoolin'. The
livelihood of their families depended on their hard work, and few rode the
yellow school buses that criss-crossed the county picking up and dropping
off students.
	What further frustrated Wade Hampton was that the country boys
rarely appeared wearing anything other than bib overalls, and the few I had
seen stripping off for swimming never wore underwear, except in the winter,
when long handles - itchy, one piece, long johns with the flap at the back
- were the rule. I delighted in pointing this out whenever Wade took off in
one of his undies flights of fancy. He would grumble and cuss me out for
spoiling his fun.
	God, however, in His infinite wisdom, ignored the cussing and took
pity on Wade, offering him a source of constant speculation: the soldiers
that had begun to flow into Camp Stephen Weed.
	Camp Weed, named for a Yankee brigadier general killed at Little
Round Top, had begun life as a training base for infantrymen in 1944. It
sprawled across the rolling fields that had once belonged to the Hamptons,
prime cotton fields turned into parade squares, shooting ranges, and
obstacle courses. Surrounded by pine woods, swamp land and marshes, it was
ideal for training soldiers to fight in near jungle-like conditions.
	The camp had remained active until 1947, when it was closed, and
the clapboard barracks, drill sheds, administration buildings were left to
fall into ruin. Scavengers had had a field day, and the buildings had been
stripped of everything from the shower heads to the light fixtures. Up
until 1966 the camp moldered away, with little attention being paid to it.
	All that changed in November of 1965 when the 1st Battalion, 7th
Cavalry, was shipped to a strange, Asiatic land called Viet Nam, to a place
called Ia Drang. While the 7th won its battle, it was plain that the
American solder was about to fight a new kind of war, a war of hit and run
guerilla tactics, fought in jungles and forests, a war for which he was not
prepared.
	This is not the place to argue the merits or horrors of the war in
Viet Nam. We knew, of course that there was a war on. The nightly
television news was filled with reports from reporters in the field,
deliberately biased men and women opposed to the war, and delighting in
broadcasting the horrors their cameramen recorded.
	Our connections to the war, other than the television, were the
young men the town sent away to the Army, or the Marines. By 1968 there
were seven new graves in Magnolia Cemetery, and three in Heavenly Rest, all
marked with small flags, the graves of warriors.
	The town knew that Camp Weed was reactivated when a long column of
trucks, filled with Engineers and equipment growled through town in
mid-August, 1967. These were the men that would rebuild the camp and
prepare it for the coming waves of young men who would train, and fight.
	The reactivation of the camp was good for the town. Soldiers had to
eat; soldiers needed recreation, which the town provided. Sitting in the
square we would see them, young men, mostly white, but some blacks, as they
shopped and took in what few sights we had. On Friday afternoons, a bus
would pull up and thirty or forty neatly dressed young soldiers would pile
out and board the ferry that would carry them down to Charleston's vice
dens.
	Anyway, we would sit in the square, with Wade Hampton all but
salivating at the tight butts enclosed in khaki dress trousers that
sauntered by. Wade always insisted that you could tell what kind of
underwear a guy had on because he had "briefs lines", which clearly showed
under the material. I debunked his theory because I knew that when Philip
Charles reported to the Citadel he was ordered to shuck his tighty whiteys
and wear baggy white boxer shorts. Then there were the movies. In every
movie I saw about the army, or the navy, the actors wore boxers, always
white. It was not until almost twenty years later when I saw a movie where
the young solders wore tighty whiteys - Full Metal Jacket, I think. Or it
might have been Gardens of Stone. Not that it matters, of course. I was
convinced that our soldiers were decorously clad in boxers!
	Sitting with Wade, and listening to his nonsense, was not a turn-on
for me. What did turn me on, to be honest, was the essential beauty of the
young American male. They all seemed to be lithe, muscular, well built,
gorgeous creatures. They all seemed so incredibly young, eighteen and
nineteen years old for the most part, and all so exquisitely beautiful,
tanned, with short, high and tight haircuts, with compact butts and
intriguing baskets.
	From time to time one of the young soldiers caught my particular
attention. One of them was an officer - a captain by the twin bars on his
collar. He was tall; around six foot four, with a smooth, muscular body and
firm, muscled thighs. He had a slightly angular face, very smooth, and
dark, smoldering brown eyes. He had a beautiful smile, and when he smiled
he revealed perfect, sparkling teeth. Everything about him screamed "SEX"
at me.
	Unfortunately, he was black, but with a hefty dollop of white
somewhere in his ancestry, and except for his hair, with his caramel
colored skin and high cheek bones, he could have passed for a Hispanic, or
one of the Mediterranean peoples. He was the only one I ever engaged in the
"Is he or isn't he" game with Wade Hampton. It was all I could do, for I
knew that even if we ever came to know one another, a physical relationship
was absolutely out of the question. The Code forbade it, not only because
homosexual acts were an abomination, but because the captain was "colored".
	Little did I know that on a cold, early winter's day in the coming
November I would see the captain in a way that still brings nightmares,
terrible reminiscences that haunt me, especially when the wind blows cold
and sighs through the cracks of my house.