Connor Chapter Six: The Inevitable
He lies in his own bed, beneath the covers -- eager to cover up -- with his head propped up on pillows. He watches me through big, grey eyes as I pop a DVD into the TV on the table beside his bed, and turn it on.
I move out of the way of the TV, to the other side of the bed, and begin removing my shirt as the TV comes alive with two girls going at it.
Like a puppy who's caught sight of a bone, his eyes divert to the television, and he begins rubbing his crotch through the thick white quilt.
"Roll over and watch your porn, Corp."
He looks at me briefly before quietly rolling over so he's on his right side, facing away from me and toward the TV.
In no time at all, the trooper forgets I'm there, lost in the on-screen imagery as two big-breasted blondes 69 one another.
He flinches as I pull away the duvet, and get in the bed, snuggling against him, my bare dick nestling in the yielding, red-hot valley between his buns. My left arm, beneath the covers, quickly surmounts his flank and descends to his tummy, idly scratching and tickling the ridges adorning his fluttering tummy.
He tries to ignore me as I rest my chin on the crook of his shoulder. After briefly giving the rounded muscle a little kiss, we watch the porn together. He knows better than to object when me right hand, currently sandwiched between my own body and the bedspread, reaches up to rub and soothe his right shoulder, whilst my left heads in a southerly direction after abandoning his masculine, fluttering tummy.
Lefty brushes against the fingers of his left hand, slowly but surely tugging himself to renewed erection. He stops briefly, as if to let me take over for him, should I wish.
I keep going, and take hold of his large, snuggly pouch, hefting and squeezing the big nuts whilst he rubs his dick with his own, big hand. He moves his right arm up, placing it beneath his head as he lies on the pillow. This lifts his heavy, condensed frame away from the bed slightly, and I take the opportunity to slide my right arm beneath him so my arm can protectively curl around him; planting my hand firmly on his rounded pec, and pull the big lug closer to me, so we are spooning like old lovers.
"Room enough for two, Corp," I mutter, as my palm moves up from his fur-lined nuggets to his marinated cock. He pushes back into me, recoiling, as I push my hand down onto the sensitive glans, his drippings smearing the centre of my palm as he reacts violantly to the pain. "Stay where you are,"
I instruct, not letting up.
"Sir..." he squeaks, his voice in high octave, dominated by deep, ragged breathing.
"It'll stop when you stop wriggling," I add.
He stops moving, every muscle tensed whilst I carefully and purposefully torture his purple glans. My paratrooper whimpers and yelps and cries, stuck somewhere between dismay and ecstasy.
He manages to remain stationary for a few endless moments.
"Very good boy," I whisper proudly. As a reward for his good behaviour, my hand relents, moving instead to take firm grip of his big purple head, fully drawing back the skin so I can pick at and scrape against the delicate, steamy glans. The watery scum he's burping up tells me I'm doing a good favour for him, even if he continues to hyperventilate and sigh, as his own hand is relegated to masturbating the base of his thick, pudgy organ.
Happy with his endurance, I soon administer a few rough, rewarding tugs to his tip, coupled with some long-overdue corkscrews. Happy with the new, loving tone of my hand, his muscles relax once more, and his breathing begins to return to a semblance of normality as he melts into me.
I stroke him as we watch the porn together. I'm hard, but not because of the TV.
His left leg moves, rotates and spreads, opening up his crotch and coming to rest upright, at a 90 degree angle beneath the quilt.
He doesn't say anything. He continues to lie on his side, watching the porn; the quilted pyramid the strut of his leg has made in the bed rocks from side-to-side, no doubt a product of the sexual electrons bouncing around inside him, struggling to get out.
This is all most fortuitous for my hands beneath the quilt; with the right leg lying prone along his bed sheet, the other rising up into the air, I am provided with some much needed room under the thick duvet.
He has been good enough to provide me with the freedom of manoeuvre necessary to quietly, gently and intimately wank him off.
My hand has a firm, strong hold on his dick, with my palm tickling, diddling and otherwise fiddling with his plump head. My sliding hand has compelled his own had to move on; he cups his nuts as my hand now moves freely and unrestricted along his entire length.
Meanwhile, my lips continue to plant demure little kisses on his muscular shoulder, whilst I continue to breath in deep lungfuls of desert lad stink.
His dick is again once again hard...once again, very hard. My fingers glide across the hardened ridges which run along the surface of his organ, luxuriating in the irascible, unrelenting marble like strength of my army Pitbull's big sweaty bone.
I guess he likes lesbians, I thought. I made a mental note to remember for future reference, as I began thrusting the length of my cock along the cleft between his butt-cheeks, the sensitised skin of my organ occasionally making every effort to rub against, prod and otherwise irritate the rubbery, rounded lil' pussy at his centre.
My hand began stroking him more lightly, more slowly. He grunted in annoyance, but doggies learn quick -- he was soon thrusting himself into my fist, the straight stud abandoning all pretence of pride as he whored himself still further in his pursuit of a climax.
His crotch attacked my fist with typical straight lad gusto, his pelvic thrusts short but powerful, with army boy's arse clenching on each assault, as though he were pushing himself into a buttery vagina, smearing another batch of syrupy pre over my palm and his sheets as he did so.
My head was still on his shoulder, and I would watch his eyes, watching the TV, wondering what was going on in his big dumb head; how he was rationalising it all.
I checked him reactions by forcefully running my thumb over the wide dome of his prick. In response, he bit his lip as a gentle yelp forced its way past his rosy lips.
Yeah, he was awake alright...just wishing he wasn't awake, no doubt.
My left hand reluctantly left his prick, so I could take a hold of my own. But not before I reach over to his bedside table, yank open the drawer, and remove the suspicious (but to be expected) bottle of lotion.
He doesn't comment. He pretends not to see it; pretends not to understand; pretends to be focussed too much on his porn. It's a pleasant fiction...and if it means I can tap his straight army-boy arse; well, fuck, I'll get out my pen and bloody write it for him if he wants.
My right hand, still luxuriating in the hide of fur adorning his pecs, twists a nipple, to help him along as his own hand begins to masturbate himself again.
With my cock now slick with lotion, my slippery index finger applies the remaining residue on the muddy exterior of his manhole. Thinking he's still a little dry, I reach over and squeeze my hand up along the shaft of his cock; his wanking hand quickly removes itself from his organ as I compel a
juicy deposit to appear in the deep well of his piss slit. Before it dribbles with the rest onto his bed covering, I capture it on my index finger.
His hole now prepped with his own, locally produced lube, I line up my terrifically hard cock, and push.
He yelps. He tries to stop himself, but he yelps, in pain. I feel bad; I'm hurting my poor little Pitbull. He doesn't know what's going on, I tell myself; why are you doing this to him? He just wants to watch his porn, the poor little thing. My hand on his pec feels him flex in anguish, and his short, bulky frame pushes forward in a hapless attempt to get away from me.
But I also feel his heart rate quicken, and I also hear the methodical, juicy sounds produced by his loose foreskin go up a gear as he strokes himself faster and faster.
His eyes remain fixed on the brunette eating out the blonde from an earlier scene.
Is the dick in his ass the dream, or are the Lesbians the dream? Does it matter?
Deciding the master always knows what's best for his doggie, I bite the bullet -- or in his case, the left shoulder, which I sink my teeth into -- and after half my dick has wormed its way up his intestine, I pull back before quickly ramming my weapon firmly up past the paratrooper's defensive ring, and into his cosy insides.
"Am-AGHARGH," he screams, clutching his dick as if it were a handbag and closing his damp eyes. I lean into him as my teeth release his shoulder from my grip, so my forehead can rest on the back of his hairless, military-buzzed neck whilst I allow myself to become enveloped in the warmth of his guts.
My peace is shattered by his flailing arm, reaching back in disorganised, panic-induced jolts as he tries to hit me, or move me, or somehow obstruct me.
"GedditaARGH HAHA, please gedditouttttttt," he wails.
Once again, he doesn't want to play any more. Unfortunately for him, this game can only end one way -- and it isn't with me now pulling out, getting dressed and us all going on our merry way.
His acute mental discord is so complete, that his fist is seemingly unable to work out how to get towards me. I ignore it and calmly pull back along his ringed tubing so most of my cock is out of him, and then I push forward once more. But more restrained this time; more gentle; more loving; as if I were his Prince and he, my maiden.
"Shush shush," I say quietly, as I kick my feet to get the covers off us, allowing me to look at his finely built naked body once more.
His hairy, heavy-set legs are still cracked open at a 90 degree angle, as if God had cantilevered them open whilst he was on his side, with him now unable to move them.
Once I'm balls deep inside the traumatised straight lad, I hold it for a few seconds, my cock seemingly pulsing with the beat of his own heart whilst I spoon him and continue planting soppy kisses on his upper arm and shoulder.
I withdraw until only the curved bell end remains within him, and then I push forward again, hard, into his blisteringly hot rectum, seeking out that little button within him which I know will make everything alright.
I do this a few times; sliding in and out of him; in fact, I do it more than a few times; I don't think I'm being too hard, but the bed is rocking backwards and forwards, my thighs ache, and he's now just emitting one long moan of tormented contentment.
I manage to prod it. Definitely once; maybe twice. In response he partly growls like a big, dumb wolf, and partly gurgles like a big, dumb baby, as if happy, but fretfully confused.
Seeking to maintain the happiness, my left hand slides from its position on his left butt-cheek, and takes hold of his flagging cock. Long since abandoned by his own fist which, together with the porn, has taken on secondary importance since my hot poker invaded his straight arsehole, I begin to jack him.
The enigmatic gurgling noises continue unabated as I carefully slide out, and back into my captured prize.
His dick again becomes stiff, drooling starchy pre-spunk over my sticky fist as I softly roil the exposed plum on the end.
When his pelvis starts to once more gently thrust into my fist in one direction, and then into my ass in the other, I know the time is right to mix things up a little bit.
I keep my right hand on his pec, and my left on his dick. When my own dick is buried to the hilt in him, I effectively weld his body to my own, and I roll over onto my back.
The first thrust to move onto my back is the most difficult, as I have to pull many pounds of heavy paratrooper with me -- but gravity and momentum soon take over, and we go rolling over, as one.
Having slipped into a carnal coma whilst I was fucking him, he cries out in surprise as he rolls. Once he is on top of me, he looks round, as if to survey his new surroundings, our legs intertwined in a mass of limbs.
As we turned, I have kept jacking him. When we come to a stop, I slow my relief to a crawl.
The heavy animal on top of me realises what he must do. In his eternal quest for friction, he straightens his big thick arms and plants his hands on the bedsheet beneath us, and seeks to cool the inferno within his balls the only way he can -- by thrusting up into my hand with the smooth, long thrusts.
Accompanying these thrusts is an inevitable, unavoidable, delightful clenching of the marble-like buttocks my cock is ensconced within.
My right hand moves from his chest to his shoulder blade, so I can encourage him to push up, further and deeper into my fist, because it makes his collapse onto my cock all the sweeter; makes my senseless plundering of his delicate pink insides, all the easier. "Good boy," I say, "work for it now, good lad," as he uses all his big-boy army strength to push up into my fist, and sate his animalistic need to cum.
His thrusts become quicker, and his breath quickens. He is sweating now; the reek of it fills the room; fills his bed.
His rounded butt-cheeks crack loudly each time his colon bores down onto me.
I feel my nuts drawing up as my fist, wet with greasy young para juice, tightens and rewards his leal service with the harsh friction he craves.
He takes in deep, great lungfuls of air as my weapon starts to fire into him. His thrusting becomes even more urgent; his breathing is flat-out as invisible bullets ricochet around his prostate, coating his straight pelvic colon with my own distinctive mark.
Whilst I am cumming, his thrusting becomes wild as he howls like an anguished banshee, and spits thick juicy gobbets of lad spunk up high into the air, before gravity adds to his humiliation by compelling it to return to Earth, via his own face.
Not really wanting to, but being so exhausted -- so utterly consumed, that he is unable to prevent it, his arms give out and he collapses onto my slowly softening cock, his sphincter still stretched around the base like a comforting, warming elastic band.
"Good lad," I say breathlessly, "you did good, Corp. Great, absolutely great."
He was silent for a minute, his head beside my own, looking up through those cold, grey eyes at the white ceiling above.
His voice was cracked; shaky. "I don't-"
"Yes you do, Corp. That's why we're gonna do it again, ok? Not because you like it, but because you need it."
"You can have them. Or I'll just delete them; whatever. I don't really need them anymore, do I?"
"I really don't-"
I put a sweaty, stinky finger on his spunk-stained lips. "Corp. Shut the fuck up. This is a good deal for you, ok? You can still do all your straight boy stuff -- you don't have to dump your girlfriend or open a hair salon or anything -- but you get the treatment which makes you cum like a fuckin' fountain -- like, the best cums you've ever had, and with a person who won't tell a soul and doesn't want to do any of that lovey-dovey 'getting to know you' shit. Alright? So yeah, I'm sorry I'm the wrong gender, pal, but that's life. Stop acting like a spoilt brat, Corp."
"I can guarantee," I said, speaking loudly, "that you are not the first straight person to engage in homosexual sex. Ok? You're not even the first straight fucking paratrooper to engage in homosexual sex. What, you think all your mates are Mr. Vanilla whilst your the one with the kinks? Jesus Christ, get over yourself, Corp."
Like all young straight boys -- especially army lads, he welcomed a bit a derisory straight-talking, and my spiel had shut him up nicely. And now my cock was soft, I wanted nothing more than to roll him off me.
But first, I had to clean him up. I ran my finger along the cooling pearled ooze which decorated his face as if I were swiping some soft icing from a cake, and eagerly, noisily sucked it clean in my mouth, relishing that special straight-boy tang.
I scooped up some more, and offered it to him, but he turned his face away muttering, "are you fucking insane."
But as he was muttering that, I jabbed my finger into his mouth.
Pitbull's can be such angry creatures; oh, you can train them to roll over; you can scratch them behind the ear whilst they look up adoringly at you; but the anger is always there, bubbling away beneath the surface. Well, my Pitbull didn't welcome the presence of my pointy finger, dripping with spunk in his mouth; not one bit. He nearly bit my finger off, in fact. But he had for the first time tasted his own essence, and he rolled off my body -- so for me, it was win-win.
I put on my clothes and left whilst he was in shower, as I knew that was how a big macho straight lad like him would want it; no 'discussions', no 'chats', no 'going over it'.
He left two days later. I watched from my window as his stuff was loaded into the back of Len's car. He then departed, with a fanfare more subdued than that which followed his arrival.
He certainly has a long time to think things over...do we have 'a thing' going? Obviously, given the circumstances, I don't know.
Maybe I'll email him?
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