Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
When I retired from the Army, which I had come to think of as a prison, my wife and I moved to a little house near the beach, and life crystallized — we, as they say, settled down. The house was a fabulous find. The previous owners had to get out of the country quick, and we happened along on the right day to get it for a song.
I had dreamed of such a house: on a bluff overlooking the ocean, a red-brick rambler on a large plot of land. A curving driveway with a line of palms on one side and an undulating mass of passion flower vines along the pavement with hundreds of those incredible purple outer-space blossoms like little motherships from Close Encounters of the 3rd Kind. They also served as life-cycle plants for a species of butterfly, and from midsummer on, hundreds of black-&-gold butterflies made the house even more beautiful.
Something else: with the cliff at the back, the woods on one side and a downslope on the other, and a long, clear area leading up to it — it’s easily defended by a small squad. Maybe a machine gun position over here, a mortar team over there . . .
With the gorgeous ocean view, the house was perfect.
My wife got another job as a nurse, and I found work with a construction company — very different from am Army Brigade and quite a change from life in the Special Forces, but I my leadership skills came in handy (and got me the job).
Civilians! No discipline! They get the job done but only because management is . . . “nice”! Man, if we ran the military that way, we would be singing “The Star-Spangled Hammer & Sickle” long ago!
But I managed. I got along with the crews. Our two salaries plus my retirement income gave us a very comfortable lifestyle. Our standard of living was perfect.
But as time went by I realized I was not perfect. Standing at the top of the bluff, I was sorely tempted to step off and become part of the gorgeous, perfect ocean view.
The problem was that my sex-life thermometer had sunk to Freezing. For a long time, sex with my wife had an astrological schedule — in the “male” seasons (Capricorn, Sagittarius, etc.) she “put up with it.” In the “female” signs (Virgo, Libra, etc.) I went without.
Thanks to the wonderfully endowed Private Clovis, a few years earlier I learned I had alternatives to a cold marital bed. I remembered my last days in the Army as the most sexually fulfilling of my life — with men.
The men on my construction site, however, had basic routines — work each day, spend a couple hours each night in a tavern, a fight or two, home for meat and wormy potatoes. After a few more beers, some TV, it was fuck the wife and hit the sack (come to think of it, not so different from the life of a soldier). Finding a man who wanted to trade sweat (or other drippings) was not so easy.
The crew undoubtedly had a “fellow traveler” or two, but trying to come on to a construction worker was like cleaning your ear with an ice pick — one slip and everything after that is pretty one-sided.
As a construction company manager, I dealt with the supervisors and coordinated with the architects during the day, then I went home, had dinner with the family, and sat down to watch a little TV — maybe with a beer. Most often I had to skip the “fuck the wife” part.
My son Paul — another graduate of the Private Clovis School of What a Man Can Do With His Asshole — was out on his own. He had joined the Army like his Old Man and had gone on to become a lieutenant in a rifle company, but that left the Old Man without the morning satisfaction of sonny-boy’s cock up his ass.
I hadn’t seen my lover, Captain Eric Stempl, in several months, and I had a bad case of itchy ass. It wanted some monster to stretch it open. My wife craved Godiva chocolates and ate them every night. I craved some male chocolates, but I didn’t get any, leaving me horny and frustrated.
To add insult to erectile-dysfunction, a section of beach near where we lived was a nudist beach. Of course this scandalized my wife, but we didn’t know about the array of naked bodies until after the papers had been signed. My wife never went near the nude beach, and (sigh!) I couldn’t, either. For one thing, a single recognition by someone from the town would probably bring an end to Life As I Knew It. For another, it was physically impossible for me to look at a naked man without raising my colors to full mast, so I would also have no chance of explaining my presence there as “an accident” or “losing my way.” A tented swimming suit would reveal my intentions as well as my endowment.
The slapping sounds of jacking off had become my theme song, and my foreskin developed a handgrip shape the exact size of my fingers. How did I get locked into being a teenager again??
And of course, Brian caught me. What else can go wrong??
Brian was the new member of the family, my nephew. Two years earlier, my brother and his wife died in a car crash while tuzla escort Brian was away at a summer camp. After the funeral, he came to live with us, and we tried to help him get over the grief. Over time he appeared to heal. We had thrown his 18th birthday party the previous week.
Brian was carrot-short and slender but still masculine — good muscle definition, not a geeky skeleton or a smooth, girlish physique. He stood rifle-straight at 5′ 2″ and probably 145 pounds or so. He had blue eyes under bushy blond eyebrows, and his thin lips overcame the usual teenaged poetic, drug-addict look because he smiled a lot.
His jaw came to a handsome point with a movie-star cleft in his chin. He reminded me of a teenaged Paul Newman. Blond, wavy hair covered his head, and his chest had a fine dusting of it even at his age.
So with my hyper-horny frame of mind, I accidentally blundered in on him as he got out of the shower. It seemed like an accident but probably wasn’t — or at best unconscious. Damn, look at that boy!
In the split second after I opened the bathroom door and before he saw me, I memorized: Big nips, maybe two inches across, brownish-red . . . I glanced down. Damn!
When Brian slid open the shower door, he grabbed the towel hanging on the rod, and as he stepped out, the towel dangling from his hand hid his cock. Damn! Damn! Damn!
When he looked up and saw me, I had to say, of course, “Oops, sorry! Didn’t know you were in here,” and I had to back out and close the door. Shit!
What in hell are you doing? Are you planning on coming on to your nephew?
Well, the hottest sex partner I ever had was Paul, my own son. Whenever he gets leave and comes home, he and I get it on.
You are thinking of seducing your brother’s son! It’s not the same! Paul was already gay; you just discovered it. Brian is straight. You would be betraying your brother’s memory!
Then I felt like shit. It’s true. No moves on Brian.
As Brian left the bathroom, a big, white towel piously covering his hips, I went in with shaving pushed to the back burner and a jack-off session suddenly
.
With fantasy visions of what might have been behind Brian’s towel, I stroked my cock in short, sharp, violent strokes, banging against my groin with passion, jerking my cock full-length. I clenched my eyes in ecstasy as my torture reached a peak. My foreskin sang its flap-flap song as I went over the falls, and my legs spread apart. I spurted out my first stream of jizz–
–just in time to hear Brian’s voice: “Oh, God, Jeez, I’m sorry, Excuse me!” And the door slammed.
Hey, what is this?? Why is all this shit happening to me? Was I Casanova in a previous life and now get punished for it? How come me alla time??
I knew the situation wasn’t over — it had another shoe to fall, and I was eager to see how I would handle it — I had not the faintest idea. As I sat with Brian at the breakfast table, he avoided my eyes. My wife left the room for a minute, so I put down my coffee cup. “Brian, are you upset by what you saw in the bathroom?”
“N-no, I’m not. I’m sorry I walked in on you . . . I really am . . . but I’m not u-upset.”
“Yes, you are upset. But why? You do it, too, you know.”
“Yeah, but . . . but I never thought of you . . . jacking off!”
I smiled. “Come on, Brian, you know as well as I do that beating the meat is the one thing every man in the world knows about, no matter where he is — or how old he is. Let’s just lighten up about it. You saw me jacking off. I know you jack off. Life goes on.”
“Yeah . . . life goes on.”
Now would be the perfect time for my wife to come back into the room! The We All Do It speech is over.
But my wife lingered at whatever she was doing, and suddenly the ticking of the clock on the counter became deafening. Finally Brian spoke:
“Yours is so big. Can I . . . see it . . . again?”
Oh, shit, oh, fuck, oh, hell! I’m not going to come on to Brian; he’s my brother’s son! But oh, god!
I was so horny, my hand moved down to my zipper, but at that instant, my wife walked back into the kitchen. Fate had stepped in. I moved my hand away from my zipper. Damn! Damn! Damn!
I was amazed my wife could not feel the electricity in the air, but she just puttered at the counter with the pancakes. I had a hardon that tapped on the underneath of the table all through breakfast.
At work that day, I was so horny my balls felt like grapefruits, and as I grew hornier, I came closer and closer to trying for a man on the construction site. That was even more dangerous than fucking around in the Army. There was no privacy, no nearby woods, no hiking trails. If I hit on the wrong guy, my life would become a world of hurt, and that wasn’t fear of being attacked by the guy — I would lose my job, my wife would leave me, a thousand things would come unwound and snap back in my face.
I could göztepe escort see the headlines: Angry Mob Beats Retired Special Forces Pervert to Death!
Somehow I’ve got to get my mind off sex!
Don’t be so selfish. Think about other people. What could you do to help people?
Yeah, that’s right. I should think more about other people. I’m thinking only of myself. I’m a good guy. I should do something for humanity. Maybe for the underprivileged.
As a kid, boxing interested me, and in the Army boxing blended right in with the karate and self-defense training for the Special Forces. On active duty I still practiced classic boxing, working out at the post gym with the speed bags, skipping rope, and so on. I also took part in amateur boxing matches. While still a captain, I won a trophy or two in the Heavyweight category in the Brigade Fights.
I had heard of a downtown athletic club that worked with underprivileged ghetto boys, and that gave me an idea. I gave them a call. The guy who answered became very excited. “Yeah, we would love for you to come down and work with the boys. We have a good facility, used to be a YMCA club years ago. Still has the pool, the gym, the locker rooms, and so on. A real Special Forces colonel to help the boys train! That’s terrific!.”
The guy was ecstatic — maybe even a little over-selling. “It would be an honor to have you work with us, Colonel. The boys will be thrilled when they hear they’ll be training with a real Green Beret. We’ll call the newspapers, it will be great publicity!”
I chuckled. Town Honors Retired Green Beret Hero Who Helps Underprivileged Youth! “Well, I’m retired now–“
“–Same difference. ‘Once a Green Beret, always a Green Beret,’ eh?”
“I think that’s a US Marine saying.”
“Well, anyway, you’re going to love this. No little-boy stuff. Our program is for young men 18 and older. If it’s okay with you, we’ll start you out next Monday!”
I hung up the phone. Retired Military Man Successfully Reduces Libido.
I got a haircut and shaved carefully my first day as a Mentor Of Young Boxers. At 7:00 p.m. I drove to the address. The building was in a tough part of town. Shabby tenements all around. The building itself was a run-down two-story red brick building, solid enough — looked like it was built as a machine shop — windows all over the 2nd-story wall, but very small ones and very high in the ground-floor wall. Still if it had been a YMCA, it must have been a seedy one.
Inside, though, the place looked a lot better — a large pool, a big, wide room with punching bags and other exercise equipment along each wall. In the center of the room was a boxing ring. The “office” was a cubicle set off by movable panels at one corner. There I met Mr. Tanderlin, the director. Think of Woody Allen but tall and pudgy. He was a nice enough guy, but I kept expecting him to come across with a punchline.
He gave me a hearty welcome, though, and introduced me to the boys: a mixed bunch of tall, short, skinny, fat, muscular, flabby. Mostly blacks, a few Hispanics, a few whites, one or two Asians. One black kid seemed to be the leader. “. . . and this is Bobby Wollen. He’s our star member.” Tanderlin chuckled. “He sorta runs things around here.”
Bobby looked like a young, angry Denzel Washington dressed in a pale blue wife-beater, a pair of red nylon shorts and silver sneakers. He had attitude. Used to being in charge. A stretch in the Army would either make or break this kid — he was the sort who either made a great soldier or ended up in the guardhouse every weekend. I learned he was also known as “The King of Calomar” for the tenement building he lived in.
As we started out, we did the rope-skipping routines, the heavy bag, techniques for the speed bags, and so on. Everybody was having such a great time, I didn’t notice the hour, and finally Tanderlin came out of the office cubicle to announce the club was closing for the night. “Oh, gee, we’re right in the middle of a feint-fight. We’ll leave in just a few minutes. Can you set the door so it will lock behind us? I’ll make sure to shut off the lights.”
“Yes, that will be okay.”
About then I had to take a leak. “Be right back, boys. Have to take a leak.” I walked over to the locker room and went in. The urinals were in a smaller room at the far end.
It was an old building — the urinal was a long trough along one wall. I stepped up to it and pulled out my cock. As I was pissing, Bobby stood beside me. I glanced over. Damn! That boy is hung! I blinked. What he fetched out of his pants had to be a good nine inches, and it was still soft! Sheesh, his mother must’ve gotten pregnant in a Tijuana Donkey Show.
“Big, ain’t it?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Those are the magic words! But what could I say? Getting caught being mounted by a construction worker was one thing, but playing with this teenager’s peepee could land üsküdar escort me serious jail time. Damn. Wrong time. Wrong guy.
But I didn’t want to get off to a bad start with them by acting prudish and offended. “You’re a lucky guy. Going to make some woman very happy someday.”
I backed away from the urinal, tucking myself in. Does the torture never end??
Back in the gym, I had the boys go through some cooling-off routines, then sent them to the showers. Now’s my chance! Eye-candy! I walked into the locker room with them. I watched a few strip down. I saw Bobby toss his jockstrap in the hamper at the corner of the room (the club supplied the towels, gym suits, and jockstraps for the boys. They just had to come up with a pair of sneakers. Then it hit me: Idiot! One of those kids says something to his parents about the new coach watching them in the showers, and I’ll be run out of town on a rail!
Disgusting Pervert Found Ogling Boys in Locker Room — Police Could Not Hold Back Outraged Mob
Damn. I walked out of the locker room and stayed out in the gym, closing doors and putting things away until the last of them had said goodbye and left.
Then I checked out the shower room to make sure the water was turned off and the lights were out. I wandered over to the hamper. Bobby’s jockstrap was on top. I recognized it. Bike
0. Size XL. Off-white color. My favorite.
I took a deep breath. It was still damp. Yellowed from long use and many washings — but the yellowish stains on the pouch were new. Maybe even from tonight.
I held it to my nose. Ah, god. I inhaled. Strong, musky, masculine. A combination of sweat, piss, and maybe jizz. That heady odor of male pheromones. The smell of a young man’s scrotum.
Look at yourself, standing in a locker room with a jockstrap pouch over your face. You are sick!
It was true. Inhaling the fumes from a young man’s jockstrap was sickening — to anyone not so horny. In all fairness, the sight of a stained, raunchy jockstrap is a turn-on, but it’s nothing compared to a big, deep-breath sniff of the wearer’s crotch-musk — like the statue of David on TV compared to standing in front of it and fondling its huge cock.
I got so turned on smelling Bobby’s jockstrap, I desperately yanked open my pants to get a grip on my throbbing dong before — but too late! — an orgasm washed over me, and I spurted a fistful of sperm into my underwear. Damn, that was good! I took the jockstrap home with me.
The next two days — before my next meeting with the boys — were torture. Every man I saw at the construction site was big, muscular, and oozing masculinity. And the damned days were so hot, many stripped off their shirts, giving me shots of big chests. Their big, brown nips were sexual headlights blinding me in the middle of the road.
I lived in desperation. Nobody could jack off in a porta-pottie — the smell in there would make a maggot puke — so I had to keep shutting myself in the nauseating place — anything to siphon off some of my horniness.
When I was signing some requisitions, Carmody, the big, bald, broad-shouldered Cajun stood beside me with another paper to sign. Oh, shit, oh fuck, oh hell. Inches away from me as I bent over the desk, his body radiated a heat that burned the side of my face. With a godlike torso covered with a thatch of coarse, brown hair, Carmody could have posed for a Gold’s Gym ad.
I gulped. Sweat ran down my face. Couldn’t stop myself — I glanced over . . . at hard, jutting pecs like gun turrets, brown aureoles maybe three inches across with nipples sticking out like little arrows aimed at my fevered brain. If this were a torture chamber, I would have yelled uncle and signed the confession hours ago.
When I finally initialed Carmody’s paper and he walked away, I couldn’t catch my breath. I had been clenching my asshole for so long it ached, and when I finally released, yet another spurt of pre-cum wet the front of my pants.
That day I wore khakis. I glanced down. Oh, shit!
I snatched a can of Coke from Wilson’s hand. “Here, gimme a swig of that! Oops!” I dumped it in my lap. Wilson snatched it back and walked away muttering angrily, but at least I had a reason for the big wet circle in the front of my pants.
That night I begged my wife to let me in. God, I was horny. Nope. “Oh, Honey! I’ve got a headache!”
Again the headlines: Retired Army Colonel Dies of Mysterious Exploding Scrotum!
The next day was 100% horny anticipation. By the time I was to meet with the tenement boys again, I had resolved that I WAS going to watch them in the showers! And Bobby. If I get another hint from him, I’ll have his pants down to his knees so fast he’ll hear a sonic boom!
I even arrived a few minutes early, hoping to catch a few in the locker room changing from their street clothes. Nope. They were all doing workout routines, waiting for Coach to arrive. Nuts.
We spent the night in various training exercises, how to hit the punching bag, footwork, practicing jabs, crosses, uppercuts, etc. At the end of the evening, again we were running late, and again Tanderlin told us to stay on and lock up when we left.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32