God bless our armed forces. Let me say that, right now, out in the open. It's not something we Brits often shout, but I'm sure we have all recognised by now that in no other military would you find lads with such fit, hardened muscle, ready to shoot (or at the very least kick) something in a very erotic manner.
And don't try and tell me that it isn't pretty fucking gay. Oh, I know, all that macho attitude and death makes it seem pretty straight, but if I put forward as a plot for a gay porno a setting in which fit young men live communally, in the company of other men, showering together, taking care of their cocks together, and compelled the follow the orders of their 'superiors'...well, it'd get canned for being too fucking predictable.
And they're ripe for plucking, too. I mean, think about it -- your basic British Army serviceman is a young man, decorated with the robust musculature necessary to endure long patrols and difficult living conditions, trained to do what he's told and with a larger-than-average cock he'd like someone to attend to (probably) -- I mean, what's not to like?!
What I'm trying to say is -- I'm pro armed forces.
But that doesn't stop me wanting to break one of them.
Len and Mary over the road may not agree with the specifics of that, but they'd certainly champion the sentiment (minus the gay bit); their boy, Connor, has been a paratrooper for as long as I've lived in this road, with 2 PARA. He still 'lives' with his parents, or rather, uses their house as a base for when he's back in the country off deployment.
I don't think he actually spends that much time with them, but it does mean I get to see him every now and again, on a semi-regular basis.
He must by now be 23, 24 years old; something like that. Frankly, I don't care how old he is, because he's fucking gorgeous.
He's inherited his father's Irish features. A brightly white, round face with a head of buzzed short coal-black hair, a pudgy nose and piercing grey eyes. His military affiliation is made clear through a sexy tattoo on his upper right arm, detailing the winged insignia of the 2nd Battalion, The Parachute Regiment in cool azure blue and brilliant white, on a dark blue background.
He's short. If it wasn't for the muscle, he'd be squat. But that muscle...it plates his body like a second armour, readying him for war; no doubt tested in some unseen battle. It makes him look imposing; heavy; square.
In the summer, I've seen him on many occasion sauntering down the road in just a pair of board shorts and flip-flops, the long hairy toes of his wide, athletic feet gripping the cheap plastic base of his footwear, his broad chest coated in a thick pelt of luxurious fur...pronounced pecs topped with a pair of seemingly perpetually hard giant 50p-sized nipples which I just want to fucking bite for him.
His legs are thickly set rugger legs, curving sensuously from one muscle group to another, and coated with that same trademark fur found on his chest.
I like it when he goes for a kickabout in the park with his mates. Walking past my house laughing and joking with them, his arse looking like some gelatinous tumour, his otherwise baggy football shorts struggling to contain the mass. When I picture my face deep within his musky rear-guard, I can't imagine anything but a steeply inclined, darkly menacing crevasse separating the two fleshy globes; sweaty, scratchy absent-minded-straight-boy whiskers tickling my chops whilst I work him over.
Sometimes I walk the dog whilst he's in the park, so I can take a good long look at the other side of him, flopping about as he runs around, tuckering himself out. I like it best when his girlfriend is there; if he scores a goal, the little paratrooper's unruly soldier will celebrate too, moving to stand sharply at attention as the trooper looks over at the attractive girl; necessitating a sharp tug to bring him back into line.
Yes, my neighbourhood Para was eager to please his girlfriend; looking for affirmation from her. But he otherwise masked his submissive streak well, possessing the cocky self-confidence which came naturally to combat forces, with a boisterous laugh and an easy smile. Whenever he was around, friends queued up to spend time with him. All this meant that the attention I knew he craved -- the sort of attention craved by all little boys; the need to be led, the deep-seated, carnal need to no longer be in control -- he did not get. No doubt, he wore the trousers in his relationships, because that's what everyone thought he wanted.
And with good reason, I suppose. Connor's easy-going attitude masked a more murky past. Hearing the story from his tweed middle class parents, after spending some time in the city's notoriously poor education system (nuffin' ta do wiv' me, guv), he became something of a mini-terror in the neighbourhood, hot-wiring cars and getting involved in drugs. Remarkably, he avoided getting a criminal record, and as soon as they could his parents shipped him off to the army.
I was surprised to learn that a Daily Mail reader like Len actually follow through on his belief that all any young malcontent needed to right them was a stint in Afghanistan: in my experience, it is a belief middle-aged parents hold with regard to everyone elses children, but not their own.
Even so, I couldn't help but wince when I heard of Connor's fate.
But unbelievably, teaching Connor how to kill a man seems to of calmed his rambunctious personality. Entering with no qualifications and no discernible skills, he was now a Corporal; a leader of men; and wanted to make a career of it.
But I would bet money that his unruly cock was still causing him problems. Yes, that's right -- as you might imagine, I very much wanted to break Connor in every way possible.
But how? The guy could (literally) kill me. And his past, whilst behind him, bled into the present -- he still maintained an enigmatically menacing presence, and whilst he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, he seemed to think things through. I had a hard time picturing myself overpowering him and tying him to a bed so I could fuck him. So, on that basis, I put Project Connor to the back of mind; presumed my fantasies would remain just that.
That was, until one quiet Sunday. Connor's parents had gone away for the weekend, and they'd asked me (!) to keep an eye on the house. Pretty ridiculous request, I thought, given that their army boy had come off deployment just the previous Wednesday and as such, was dossing around the house...but I thought maybe Connor himself was going off somewhere as well, so I nodded politely and said I'd keep an eye on the place.
Well, one thing led to another and I didn't keep an eye on the place. It was early in the evening, and I was watching the Countryfile weather forecast (best weather forecast there is -- it's for farmers) when a loud cacophony started up from over the road.
Listening for a few minutes, I soon realised that it was meant to be music.
Well this is awkward, I though. Am I supposed to tell Connor to quiet down? I couldn't see that ending well. So, like a nervous pervis, I turned off the light and looked through the crack in my window; lots of people were milling around on the front lawn of Len and Mary's house.
None of them were Connor.
So, I put on my coat, and went over the road. I mean, what's the worst that can happen?
I should add that I'm in my late 20s, but look younger, so when I turned up over the road to demand to speak to the boy in charge, I was met with greetings and nods from weirdos who were smoking something which contained a lot more than tobacco - as if I were a fucking guest.
Insulted, but also not wanting to pass up this opportunity, I swallowed my pride and said hello to the druggies.
Looking for Connor, I walked over to the little path which ran alongside the house, and craned my neck over the low gate to look into the back garden.
I then removed my phone from my pocket, and took 15 pictures of Connor snorting a white powder from a piece of paper.
I presumed it wasn't fairy dust.
Happy with myself, I quietly left and returned home.
The pictures were good -- but how to use them? Again, I was confronted by the fact that the person I was trying to 'get' could execute me. Then, my phone beeped with a message. And it hit me. Suddenly I had my plan, and I knew, even though simple-minded Connor didn't, that it was only a matter of time until I would claim the boy's delicious reproductive organs as my own.