Drill Sargent Ch. 02

WARNING: This story contains words that may be offensive to some readers. As they are not the author's point of view, such words were used liberally in basic training, especially back in the seventies. And I assure you, oh savvy reader, the story is fictional. All characters are over 18.

This is basic military training of a very different kind.

*

I said nothing but I visibly shook.

Steam rose from him as if he was a volcano. His heavily tanned body and thickly matted hair still dripped warmth to the floor. I followed his treasure trail of successive hairy arrows to his cock. He seemed to fill the entire space of the door. Towel in hand, hands on hips, legs spread unnecessarily wide, he looked with a mixture of suspicion and delight.

"Sneaky," he said, shutting the door, "and here I thought you were a scared little faggot."

Throwing the towel on his bunk, he came to the desk and looked down on me with beautifully clear eyes of light blue—a blue that called to mind Mediterranean beaches.

"You were playing me?"

I shook my head, no.

"Oh yeah you were, faggot," he said and moved behind me. Suddenly he grabbed my shoulders and roughly massaged, while he slowly said, "I don't like to be played." His fingers dug into me and I squeaked.

Stopping, he moved to his bunk and sat at the edge. With revenge on his breath, he hissed, "Get over here."

I moved between his hairy, wet legs and sat on my hunches.

Looking down at me, he softly caressed my chin and said, "Are you a good faggot?"

I said nothing.

"Grabbing my chin hard and squeezing, he asked, "Did your daddy teach how to be a good faggot?" The question was asked in a mocking tone, more like a taunt than an inquiry. "Or was it your brother? I know, it was the neighbor, right?"

He didn't wait for me to answer but he did expertly push my head to his cock so that it parted my lips, slid over my tongue, and efficiently cutoff my air.

"Relax. Breathe through your nose. No teeth," he instructed, as if we were on the drill pad.

SLAP!

"Teeth, I said."

The slap encouraged of my lust. Through the instructions, the even-handed aggression and tenderness, he didn't look at me, not like lovers do. He kept his eyes closed when I did as he wanted and opened them when I didn't.

We fell into a rhythm: He pushed for his mounting pleasure and I endured through his confusing feedback. Yes, it was approval I wanted, as if everything he did to me made me want to improve, made me want to do more, and ultimately, made me want to satisfy him. Yet, I needed his seeming indifference. It fit so well with his contempt for me, but I discovered I wanted to erase the contempt, and deeply sucking him was a good start.

My submission came with his increased aggression—a symbiosis, I suppose—but I couldn't resist the implication of him: his overwhelming size, big and solid—a hairy monolith of masculinity. His furry body embossing military muscle. My imaginings changed with each wave of pleasure.

They were images of his fucking me into a quagmire, of my lips seeming to split from the thickness of his cock, of his whiskered mouth and tongue finding my rosebud, and of my gripping his ass cheeks as he piston-ed into my quivering hole. Summing all of this in my mind, I made sucking his cock the singular purpose of my existence.

Suddenly, he pushed me away. I stayed on my hunches and waited for approval.

"Oh, no, sweet pea; you won't get off so easy. I think you were trying to make me cum," he said with eyes narrowing, "but you have more to do."

Only the soft circle of light from the desk lamp lit the scene. Wordlessly, he grabbed my head and pulled me to the bunk. "Get on your knees, put your ass up, and keep your head in the sheets." Then he warned, "If you move, I'll knock the shit outta ya. Got it?"

I shook my head, yes.

"Good, now outta the drawers and hand them over," he said extending a hand.

After doing as he said, I took my position at the edge of the bunk. A calm fell over me as soon as my head hit the cool sheets. I spread my knees wide enough to place my shoulders on the bunk: it felt primal, even natal.

"That's the position I want you to stay in until I say different, and you don't get to touch that cock," he said before stuffing my drawers in my mouth. "That's to keep ya quiet," he said.

I heard him collect the necessary items for the fuck that was surely coming, then I felt his exquisitely warm and wet tongue. It moved expertly around my rim, clearing away the grit and sweat that the day's drill had created.

"There's nothing like the taste of virgin boy-pussy. Taste this," he said and placed two fingers coated with his precum and my grit in my mouth. It's heady taste and unique smell went to my slightly trembling hole. I flared a bit and tried to remain still.

"Good stuff? Yeah, it is, but you have to earn what comes after it, faggot," he said and replaced the drawers.

His drops of spit hit my hot hole like cold rain and quickly pooled in the valley between my round cheeks. The pool caused me to shiver from the millions of goose-bumps traveling along my surface.

"Hmm, that's good boy-pussy juice. Too bad you can't taste more, but that's okay; there'll be plenty for you to taste," he said and continued to push me above a level of pleasure I had never experienced. I gave up trying not to sound like the faggot he thought I was, and I thought, how strange that lust caused me to consider being called faggot; in fact, for the moment, I was his faggot pussy-boy with my ass in the air and my head in the sheets. He was eating my boy-pussy and continuing his humiliation, and I loved it all so much that I felt my hole relaxed to a level I never felt.

If I were a volcano, then my hole would certainly be the deepest caldera ever measured. My mind fought for logic but that was a waste of time.

"Ahhh," he said as the last of his cock seared into my boy-pussy. The momentary pain eased to sublime pleasure, as if all the visuals of ecstasy were looping on a giant screen, and that giant screen was my mind's eye.

"Yessss," came from his lips like steam, as he began to ease to and fro. "So tight, so fuckin tight," he said while gradually increasing his speed.

As the last pain of adjustment passed into nothingness, I went slack, as if my body had suddenly lost all form. My mind went to my boy pussy, and I tried to communicate my submission to Drill Sargeant through it.

"That's it, now you're opening up. Ohhh, yeah, easy, easy. Ahh, I'm so fuckin close but I can't. No, I can't—easy, easy."

He thrusted with immense power and began a pounding that pushed my head farther into the confusion of bedding. Fortunately, my drawers stayed in my mouth as I moaned at higher octaves.

Although his pace quickened to a blur, he kept his cries of ecstasy quite low. And digging his nails into my sides, he slid my hole along his cock with such speed and force that I imagined being impaled. I spasmed with each downstroke and let loose dramatic farts and sputters on the upstroke. My boy-pussy stretched and maw-ed wider and deeper as he kept up the pummeling.

And when I thought I would split apart, he announced, "Here it comes, faggot." But his announcement didn't come as a loud declaration or as if he was claiming territory. It came as a spit coated hiss.

"Take it, take it, take it," he said, punctuating each thrust until he emptied his large hairy balls. I felt his huge load fill me completely and run down my thighs.

He fell on his back beside me. "Stay right there," he said between breaths. "Don't you fuckin move."

More juicy farts and sputters blew from me and I secretly liked hearing the sounds.

As his breathing slowed, he rose and stuck fingers in my still gaping boy pussy. "Sample this," he said. "If you're a good faggot, maybe next time I'll let you swallow it" he said and ripped the drawers from my mouth before shoving in his cum-coated fingers.

With that, he slapped my ass and told me to, "Get out and wash your ass—good."

As I pulled on my drawers and headed for the door, he said, "Have this shit finished before reveille," and closed the door behind me.

I slept with a grateful ass and in fitful dreams as I wondered what else Drill Sargent had in store for me.