ST; 'A Marine and a $25 Bet' {maletrain} {M/M, bond, sm} [1!1]
A Marine and a $25 Bet by Maletrain [Maletrain@aol.com]
------------------- c 2001 by Maletrain [Maletrain@aol.com] All rights reserved.
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I had shot my last roll of film and so headed to the mall I saw a few miles back to buy some more. Didn't know where the camera store would be; figured I'd park near the main entrance, go in and find a directory. The trick to parking near a mall entrance is that the number of parked cars stretches out further to the edge of the lot than where there is no direct access to the mall, but the other side of the equation is that there are more short term people who park near the doors too. After all, if you are going to be at the mall for several hours walking all over, you don't mind parking where you will have to saunter some, but if you are only running in to buy a couple AA batteries, you don't want to hike half a mile before you get to the store. So there is generally a more rapid turn over of those spots near the entrance, you just have the cruise a little.
And today, with that mid-summer sun beating down it was much nicer to spend the time in the A/C of the car than making the long hot slog in from the outer reaches of the mall property boundary line.
The local radio warnings of not leaving pets or babies unattended in cars today due to the heat reminded me that I had heard in the national news of actual cases where small children had died when left in cars while a parent dashed in to do some quick shopping. In fact in our paper back home they published information that even on a 75 degree day with the windows rolled up in direct sun light a car would quickly become a sweat box, at 80 degrees a car would heat up to 131 degrees in 15 minutes; and at 100 degrees outside in that quarter hour the inside of the car would be 172.
The air temperature was already up to 85 right now and rising fast. Not too uncomfortable in a desert, but after the cold winter we had had here in the Midwest, the warmth was quite noticeable.
A slot opened up about 1/3 of the way out to the end of the row and I pulled in. Just as I was swinging my door open, a built young blond strode past walking in from further out in the sizzling lot. He was wearing athletic shoes, white sox, dark cargo shorts, and plaid boxers up at least 2 inches above the cargos but still well below that first ridge of his ab pack. He was shirtless but I hardly noticed that because his upper body had such a natural classic look: his tight bare teen trunk seemed as if he were indeed wearing clothes. He actually appeared to be flaunting his build; he was not so much walking as he was "strutting" into the mall. Between the bottom of the cargo shorts and the top of the athletic sox I enjoyed seeing a set of very nice calves working. Lots of dudes who wear cargo shorts just have two narrow shapeless poles going down to their feet, but not this guy. There was symphony in the fluid motion of those clean calves clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing as he strutted along. I noticed his worked out upper arms bulging and those calves provided a very worthy complement to them. From what I could see I didn't know if he had double-peaked biceps but it looked like he certainly had well defined double-peaked calf muscles.
Now all this would have been enough to get my attention, but to top it off, his bright blond haircut was clearly a high and tight, extremely athletic, even military.
By the time I had unfolded myself from behind the wheel and stepped up and out and got the car locked up I was too far behind to catch up with him but squinting off in his direction I did see him daringly pass inside the outer mall doors before he pulled out a plain white A-shirt and slipped it over his perfect yield sign shaped torso.
The pleasant memory of his passing, indeed the mental video of this buzz cut blond replayed several times in my head as I found the camera store and got my film. I was back out at the car wondering where to go next to capture the cityscape of this out of state town I was visiting for the first time, when I saw another shirtless guy coming out of the mall, shirtless even before he hit the outer door. A second teen! I wondered what they put in the water in this town. At that distance I didn't recognize his body, but I did soon smile as I identified that strutting stride. Wow did he have an attractive manly face, and a tight body, and pecs that were flat thick trapezoidal forms fitted out with standard man-sized nipples set right at the outer lower pec corners pointing slightly down and out. A severe 45-degree angle up from his baseball capped shoulders to his strong Adam's apple equipped neck. An obvious 6-pac, almost an 8-pac was seen riding just above those plaid boxers. He had no love handles, the smooth skin was pulled in tight to his waist; he had very, very little body fat.
I saw several women and even some guys look at him as he passed them. In fact one middle-aged lady in an SUV almost had an accident as she lost track of where she was driving even as her eyes were tracking the kid's marching up the line of cars in the lot.
Marching, that was it! Almost like he was doing a military parade drill in his naked nipples there in the now 90 degree sun of the mall lot. He sort of rolled his hips, not in a feminine way, but in a super masculine way and kept the top of his blond military high and tight level and straight as he moved closer to me.
I had seen that body movement before in watching Marines marching on the parade field. Once in great while I will see a civilian walk like that, I think it has something to do with a guy who does a lot of leg lifts or somehow has a lot of muscle control of his hips and upper legs. It is not really a strut or a swagger nor is it a glide, but sort of a combination of all three. John Wayne had a version of this walk. Let's just leave it at a parade drill gliding strut.
And I could see in my head a video of ranks of uniformed Marines carrying their weapons in close order parade moves. "From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli." That was it! The kid was walking slower than a regular teen would walk, but with more purpose than some guy just bopping along. He was stepping to standard military parade cadence, in ordered and precise steps, and in his mall lot parade drill he sure didn't need any epaulets; his high-mounded shoulder muscles were doing very well in their absence. In place of campaign ribbons on a trim dark tunic, his lightly tanned torso had those fine firm-domed nipples forming just the right accessory look to his ever so slightly and rhythmically flexing chest: a solid set of twin muscle slabs carried high, proud, and out above the two columns of the slowly undulating ab pac.
My eyes followed him sweep by me. He moved out way past the line of parked cars; seemed to be heading for a lonely Buick LaSabre isolation-parked at the very edge of the lot. I backed out my Ford and drove out toward him formulating my plan.
I pulled up as he was about to reach his car and yelled out: "Parked a little far out, didn't you?" His face, serious or lost in thought on his way out now lightened up; he smiled back that he had had to be careful with the car as it was his mom's and he had to pick her up at 7 p.m. from work; but then with eyes sparkling, and smile broadening even more, his Adam's apple bobbed, his abs flexed subconsciously, and told me he wanted to make the walk as long as possible to maximize the tanning. Said he had trouble keeping a tan as he was so blond. I told him I was an amateur photographer from out of town and that I had seen some interesting suburban factory buildings about three blocks down, just past the McDonald's and I wondered if he wouldn't mind taking 5 minutes to pose for me, thought the bricks and steel and sharp lines and angles would be a good contrast to the smooth compound curves of his muscles. He smiled again, that big smile of guys who know they are good looking.
Relaxing his well-capped shoulders a little, he opened up, like someone who really hadn't said much to anyone all day and was trying to make up for it now that he had a live audience. The situation rapidly became even better than I had hoped: he said he had flown home for a very quick leave having just finished boot camp with the Marines. He only had a day or two, and probably shouldn't have taken leave at this time; most of his friends were working today or out of town. He really didn't have much to do; he could spend as much time this afternoon as I needed. He knew the place I was talking about, or at least the road leading back in there.
With that I let him back out and my Ford happily followed the big Buick over to the industrial site, drove down through a narrow access alley and then out behind into a small parking lot and truck loading area. Apparently part of a medium heavy industrial zone built long ago next to a railroad bypass belt line at one time perhaps at the very edge of the city but now swallowed up by recent suburban residential sprawl and the concomitant commercial development; it was a place surrounded on three sides by multiple-story brick industrial structures and the fourth side was close- bounded by a railroad yard raised up on a berm and filled with blocks and blocks of standing freight cars. A Saturday and no one was near or apparently in any of the buildings. The light was very good; the sun bathing the entire area in hot, shadowless brilliance.
Now a further indication that the teen recruit enjoyed showing off his great looking body was that even though his Buick was equipped with a strong A/C system, he had chosen to keep his shirt off for the drive over. He had turned on the A/C but not enough to frost his nipples. The cold air if anything just brought the tips of his tits up to full tight military alert.
I had him do a series of shirtless poses flexing with arms behind, arms in front, hands on car, climbing the black metal external fire escape on one of the red brick buildings. Because of the angle of the sun, in almost every shot I took the light bounced back up from the surface of the parking lot and highlighted his pecs and even his abs, forming an inverted halo of luminance along the lower curves, lending a strong third dimensional look to his handsome torso. The camera liked his smooth tight body even as much as he liked showing himself to it. Pushing down inside his dark short cargos there seemed to be the hint of a rising Marine cock. Mine really had never been down since I first saw him.
After shooting about 5 minutes I told him I noticed that not a soul was stirring in any of these buildings and I wondered if he minded doing a few poses in his plaid boxers.
No problem!
And very quickly he was folding his cargos and putting them neatly on the front passenger seat of the shinny LaSabre. As he ducked into the door opening I could see that his bent upper body formed almost a complete inverted U and that it was so tight that his abs and pecs, indeed the whole inner side of that U was as firm and tight and as close to his frame as when he was standing upright. I had a hard time taking my eyes off his V- tapered back but I did catch what looked like a set of black handcuffs there on the seat next to where he had laid his precisely folded pants.
Well, we did another series of photos with him flexing in his boxers and he was definitely "up" for this, and so was I.
After the boxer round I asked him about the cuffs and he said that eventually he was to specialize in field combat interrogation, had picked up a set of cuffs at a military surplus store to practice cuffing a few guys he knew while he was briefly here at home. I asked him if he could put his cargos back on and would he mind if we got some shots with the cuffs?
Not a problem!
He smiled back, bent over again into the Buick, grabbed the cuffs and the cargos and quickly pulled the pants up his smooth muscular hairless legs.
The dark cuffs made a good photographic image set against his lightly tanned skin. We did shots with the hands cuffed in front, hands up behind his head, and hands cuffed behind. The contrast of the cold flat steel shape of the cuffs went very well against his curving muscular forearms and indeed his whole upper body. His muscles made him look dangerous enough that being locked into chains was just the right tension leveler. His muscular build and military look made it seem that he almost deserved to be cuffed: a body trained-up to destroy, to kill, and to break things but now safely held in check. He continued to show a hard-on but we didn't talk about it. The cargo covered erection was caught in the photos, he was one well-equipped fucker and it was a good thing he was chained up and couldn't plug anyone with that ever-firm late teen prong.
It was neat how the transfer of power had happened, the first time when he cuffed himself in front; he held the key to the cuffs in one hand but then placed it on the hood of the Buick. Then when we went to go with the hands behind, I just naturally got the key, unlocked him, cuffed him up behind, and "kept" the key. He was so turned on to being photographed in his cuffs I doubt if he even noticed. My cock drooling down into my underpants did notice.
We did a few more shots with his arms locked in various positions to or around components of the fire escape. Then we did some more shots with the cargos back folded neatly in the car and the plaid boxers fully tented out. He had been in and out of the cuffs several times now and was quite comfortable with wearing them and with me holding the key, although again I doubt if it really registered with him that he was temporarily not in complete control. Here a stranger he didn't even know had him black-cuffed in his boxers and he was smiling all the while.
Finally I took off his cuffs and handed them and the key back to him. He smiled. Then I asked him if he would mind doing a couple nude shots. It had now been over half an hour and although we could hear traffic passing on the street there was no one here behind these buildings. His masculine but teen voice said that. oh,. well,. he probably wouldn't mind doing a nude shot,. or two.; but his quickly brightened face and sparking eyes told me that, Wow! He thought I would never ask!
The shoes and sox came off as he bent back into that good inverted U and then he dropped his boxers, folded them neatly and put them on the seat of his car next to his warm dark handcuffs. I barely had time to admire the muscles contracted in his small high trim naked butt. He turned around and was pointing up at my face with his full hard Marine prod. He was sorry he was so erect, but wondered if I could take some photos of him like that. .
Not a problem!
We didn't discuss it, but I imagined that during boot camp this young Marine's member had not seen too much cunt and in fact now that he was back on this quick leave it was no doubt hard to convince a girl to let him fuck her when he couldn't stay around for a "relationship". Probably been some time since that prod had been used, at least in the "natural" God-intended way. No wonder it was "up" for some photos.
The pavement under his bare feet was noticeably warm, but not too much more uncomfortable than walking across the sand of a beach, he told me.
I enjoyed shooting a series of photos with him full up, half up, and at ease, although even then his tool always kept a degree of military alertness, ready for action. He looked good with his cock in any position. It was then that the Adam's apple made a couple of slow trips deep down the front of his strong neck and he quietly suggested that I might want to get some poses of him naked and in the cuffs, but only if I wanted to.
Not a problem!
Now it was my turn to secretly think, Wow! I thought he would never ask!
I wondered if the guy had ever been photographed in cuffs, or nude. Perhaps not. It is not the sort of thing you go down to your local Sears and ask the portrait photographer to do. It might not be the kind of thing you would even ask a friend to do, but a stranger, maybe a trusted stranger, yes!
After another round of numerous poses and takes we finally finished, him gloriously naked, hands cuffed behind his back palms-out, the dark steel double-locked down tight to the surface of his wrists limiting any rotational action to only what the short connecting chain would allow. He was smiling as if that were the most normal thing in the world, to be standing outside in the hot sun naked and cuffed and "up" and talking with another man and asking if I would send him copies of the photos. I realized that not only did he like to show his body off to others; he enjoyed looking at it too. I quickly jotted down his military address and then I told him that to cover the costs of the processing and postage I would bet him. He sort of mumbled a low OK, but his cock wagged its up and down approval much more enthusiastically. I doubt if he noticed the movement but his reproductive organs were showing me he was a betting man.
The bet would be that I would put him cuffed in the backseat of his car and belt him down. I would give him 20 minutes to get out. If he made it out, I would cover the costs of his photos. If he didn't escape in the set time limit, I would take $25 from his cargos for the processing fees. It was a physical bet, a dare, a challenge. No Marine could refuse such an offer, he didn't.
His erection continued to wag in the sun as he thought the bet through. The cocky jarhead was sure he would be able to get loose; after all he was a fresh fully trained-up recruit. It was less than a minute later that he found himself straddling the hump in his mother's back seat, chest slightly forward, arms pushed up high into the small of his back, the waist belt tightly cinched down on his naked narrow pelvis.
I told him before the count started I had to make a few adjustments and then I would go across and down to that McDonald's to get us some Cokes, would be back in 5 or 6 minutes and then watch him complete his 20 minute "ride". He laughed saying not to rush back that he would be waiting for me free and out and sitting over on the fire escape when I came back with the drinks.
I used all the gripping power I had to pull that seat belt down fast on his lower midsection. In fact his butt was forced down, deep down into the cloth upholstered bench and back, full back into the seat back, the soft Fisher Body foam was completely compressed under his hips and behind his tight little butt. He really was not feeling too much pressure himself, the safety restraint was designed to put the stress on the strong hipbone. With the crash tested webbing angled down to steel anchor points far below the cushion mount, the Marine's narrow male hips were held decisively fast to the chassis of his car.
Since he didn't have any pain from the belt, just some pressure, he was still laughing with masculine self- assurance and I'm not sure he even noticed what I was doing when I checked the small tab on the trailing edge of each back door to make sure the child lock system was engaged. Then I went around and opened the driver's door, ran up all four windows, and pressed the rocker switch for the child window lock system, again he couldn't see that last move I made but he did see me reach over to his neatly folded cargos, grab his keys, and set the door locks to on. I told him I didn't want any dudes coming up and messing with his pretty body while I was gone, and he laughed again as I shut the driver's door, looked at my watch and yelled through the thick safety glass that the time had started.
He smiled back, ball sac spread out on the seat there between his legs the thick cock just barely resting on that bulging male cushion but mostly pointing up toward the front seat map lights up there in the ceiling just behind the top edge of the windshield. He began to pull his trim torso forward in a small orientally polite bow. His hands were forced up about half way between his butt and his shoulder blades due to his hips being jammed hard against the seat back. He started to twist his upper body around to bring out his cuffed wrists along one side of his back.
I got in the Ford and backed out, watching the soft sprung Buick bucking up and down and rocking from side to side as a blond high and tight head went bobbing around in that rear seat, moving everything he could, everything except his own little rear. I drove over to the MacDonald's, rushed into the john, dropped my pants and barely had time to aim my cock at the stall wall as I shot a huge load thinking of that trim Marine naked, cuffed, hard and bucking in the back of his Buick. I got the cokes. Left my car there and I just walked back across the street and up the alley and around the corner into the factory loading lot, carrying the two cokes.
I came up behind the Buick and of course the Marine wouldn't know if I had returned with my car or not, his field of vision was somewhat limited. His broad shoulders and how he had to sit all the way back in his seat meant that he really couldn't turn his head enough to completely look out the back window.
I don't know if the private had ever had physics but he soon discovered the mechanical limitation of his situation. I'm sure going in he thought all he had to do was slide his hands out from behind his back and reach around and unlock the belt buckle. Well that would have been true had the belt been up around his narrow natural waistline. Might have been true if the belt and been down several inches lower where he wore his boxers, or 2 inches lower where he wore his cargos, but that belt was actually way down across the top edge of pubic hair, just above his hard sprung cock. I made sure his safety belt was low and tight, really low and really tight, just the way the sweet airline hostesses say to fasten them.
From my rear position I couldn't see all the way into the car, but I could see enough to mentally fill in the rest of his campaign against the seatbelt. At finding he couldn't quickly reach the release on the belt, his cock went full up, not because of any major panic, but because there was the glimmer that he was going to lose, and a Marine never wants to lose. Well, he had some time to figure a way out. Instead of just an upright torso twist, he would lean over to the side, rotate from that position and bring his hands down closer to the level of the belt. No problem here, his body had spent many hours in boot camp bending and twisting in groaning drillmaster mandated P.T. But as he leaned over, his body forced his lower elbow into the seat cushion, and he couldn't bring his hands even as far around front as when he was sitting bolt upright. The harder his obliques pulled down on his torso, the less free movement he had with his upper arms. The angle was such that he was actually pushing his hands further out from the release button the closer down his tight boot trained trunk came to the bottom cushion.
Well, next he tried leaning again but this time going around the high side of his smooth hairless ribcage. No use, now the palms out hands were way out of position for reaching the belt release low down just over his small neat patch of pubic bush. Doing it on that side was sort of like trying to lower the lifeboats on the high side of a listing ocean liner sinking slowly into the sea. He could move everything, his hands, his fingers, but of course the cuffs locked tight to his wrists meant that rotation of the hands and arms was very limited and all things considered his fingers just didn't have enough reach at the proper angle to get to that release button, not that he didn't try, and try hard.
I wasn't sure if it were the muscles contracting, or the way he was forcing air out of his rib cage by all those gyrations and compressions, but there were definite heavy male grunting sounds as the Marine humped and twisted and bumped his shoulders, arms, hands, fingers, ribs. Anything that would move above his pelvis he was pushing into action, pushing to the limit. Even his nipples were being bumped around riding on those heaving flexing pecs like little fishing boats caught out in a gale, clinging desperately to the lower outer edges of his chest slabs. His gyrating hard tit points like little sailboats with canvasless masts riding out the fury of a hurricane.
Of course all this leaning and twisting was not done with abs and upper body muscles alone. His thighs and calves were hard at work too, his bare feet slipping on the carpet as he tried to exert his man-force to bend his body to the release button. The exertion had brought a sheet of sweat that covered his entire body. In fact the heat in the car had noticeably gone up, that 95 degrees at the start was well over 105 now and rising fast. He figured he had plenty of air, no problem there, but the elevating temperature of the air was beginning to flash a blinking yellow caution light in his brain.
Although different in many ways, he was reminded of the gas mask training in boot camp where he and his buddies were locked into a room filled with smoke, fumes, and little air and with the protection removed from their faces forced to stay there a lot longer than they wanted to. Well, this was different, there was no mean drill sergeant keeping him in. He could leave the car at anytime, just as soon as he got that belt unbuckled. But what if he couldn't? He couldn't twist enough to see if the photographer had returned with the drinks yet, and. right now. he wasn't sure if he could get out!
The moment of doubt sent a stream of ooze out the end of his now super hard Marine cock and the stream trailed down in a small thread all the way to the center hump on the floor. His hands were kept well away from his cock and balls, after all they couldn't even reach as far as the belt release button just over his neat small clean pubic patch, but he was hard and dripping and had no way to do anything about it. He could only sit there, strong legs spread wide, looking down at his tool begging him for some frictional attention. He took a short break in his workout, just sitting there drooling onto the floor.
Boy was it hot! The temperature would have been going up anyway, but with his workout generated body heat spreading out and then bouncing back from the confined space, it was up past 115 now. He had just had a "melt" down where his body seemed to go from hard athletic sweating to maximum fire sprinkler mode. Perspiration dripping off his jaw line and splashing down onto his pec plates. Streams of fluid flowing down from his underarms now slightly more exposed as his arms were pulled back, his wrists locked tight up behind his back. Because of their shape and location, his nipple points were serving as major jumping off points for the two small waterfalls of fluid streaming down from the top half of his upper body.
Being so lean and tight the young jarhead didn't carry with him too many stored body fluids and what little moisture his body did have it was sending up and out of his skin as fast as it could. That Coke was sure going to taste good when the photographer got back. But then, wait a minute! He couldn't hold that drink with his hands cuffed behind, cuffed palms out, and there didn't seem to be any place the photographer could set the drink down where he could bend over enough to reach the straw with his mouth. Well, it was humiliating enough to be naked, cuffed and belted into your mother's car, and not be able to get out, this was one Marine, one proud and cocksure Marine, who was not going to beg to be fed that drink, No!
He would be loose and out and tanning before the guy came back, that's for sure. No mere civilian was going to hold this Marine prisoner. His cock was happy to hear this; it was anxiously awaiting the tight grip of his now cuffed up right hand. Free and out! He punctuated that last thought with the first of his back arch moves.
He was now figuring he could work the belt loose a little by pushing up on his hips. He had done some wrestling in high school and in boot camp too, and so he knew he could support his body weight on just the back of his head and his heels, he had done that arch many times, even while another guy was riding on his midsection trying everything possible to make him put his shoulders down for the count. Well, in his current situation, he couldn't use his powerful neck, but his wide-set shoulder blades were lined up with the top of the seat back, and of course he had his bare feet free there on the floor below him.
His movement now forced his big pecs up and out. It was almost like someone had snapped clamps on his nipples and had run a bungee cord from them up to the central inside rearview mirror and now he was arching his back trying to get his tits as far forward as he could to ease the tension on the sensitive erect points. There was a problem though: no matter how hard he mashed his blades into the seat back and used all his back muscles to pull his trapped hips forward, he couldn't seem to match the same effort with his legs. The wickedly low seat cushion meant his knees were bent in an odd angle; he really couldn't push his hips out away from the seat back with his legs alone. He could push up some, but not with nearly the same force he used in wrestling. He experimented with narrow stance, wide stance, but each way was clearly futile. He couldn't see his butt muscles but could feel them at maximum contraction. He cock felt that butt- clench too, he looked down and saw his cunt-deprived pole just about harder and higher than he had ever seen it before. The fact that there was no one around, not a guy, not a girl, no one touching his privates, was even more interesting, he was spewing a continuous and every moment stronger flow of manly slime down onto the floor of his car, right between the V of his upper legs with those huge slanting straps of muscle on the top of his thighs swelled up and pushing and sweating.
I came around the swaying sedan and looked in on a writhing naked Marine, frantically jerking and twisting his body, pumping his legs, bending forward, then arching his back. I put one foot up on the front bumper and enjoyed the distinctly erotic human bucking motion the soft sprung car body was making. He still hadn't broken, quite a Marine. I pointed to my watch and yelled that he had "10" more minutes to go before he lost. Laughed at his lack of progress in the effort to liberate his body from his own car. Heard his muffled shout back that he wasn't going to lose, I knew what he was trying to say but wasn't really sure exactly what he said: it is sort of hard to talk like a human when your mouth is either clenched tight in a total body full grunt male muscle strain, or wide open gasping in the 120 degree high humidity air.
I had told him 10 more minutes, implying he had only gone "10" but of course my watch actually said he had already gone the 20. He probably didn't notice how long it had been but was doggedly sticking it out. I stood there enjoying my refreshing drink and I could see in his eyes that thirsty look. The request for a quenching beverage was in his eyes, but not on his lips, flared back with those ever-greater steam engine like gasps for air. Shouted to him I had put his drink over on the fire escape and he could drink it when he got out of the car. On hearing that he swallowed or tried to.
Well, this was both good and bad news to the Marine. At least he would not have to humiliate himself by having that damn photographer hold the paper cup up for him. But then it would be a few more minutes until he could get a drink. Just for a moment he realized it might be the full "10" more minutes. Damn it seemed like he had been in this chrome trimmed steel sweat box for a half hour or more, hard to imagine it was only 10 minutes, well if that was 10, could he hold out for the next ten. Then he realized there had been no provision in the bet for quitting early. Even to lose he had to go the full "20" minutes. Well, he was beginning to think that maybe that would be the way it would go, he would lose but lose like a man, taking his full 20 minutes in the searing heat of the car. Sweat from his whole upper body was streaming in rivers, cascading down both flat trim muscular sides of his butt and soaking into the cushion. God was it hot in there, and still getting hotter.
He now tried the ultimate move. Why hadn't he thought of it before? If his hands were behind his back, why not flip over and just bring the hands down to the buckle release that way? Might take a few minutes to feel how to work the hands sight unseen, but at least they would be right over that belt, right in the best position.
This full rotational movement required all his military P.T.-trained muscles and then some. It would have been easy with his arms free, but he had to use his side obliques to bring his shoulders around to just past 90 degrees with the back of the seat. Now a thinner man, one with less lat spread, one of beanpole proportions might have had a easier time of it, but that narrow recruit waist flared out and up into very wide trained-up shoulders. His shoulder blades had to be tilted down about 45 degrees with the floor of the car in order for him to have any hope of rotating all the way around in the belt. His legs and feet were struggling on their own, exploring new ways to bend.
But finally he realized that he just couldn't bend back 90 degrees from his hips. Certain wrestling holds like the backbreaker, where the one guy is bounced chest-up on the knee of the other guy as one hand grabs the racked- out guy's throat pushing his upper body down toward the floor while the other hand is holding and pushing on his helpless upper legs, well, even in those cases, the bent guy screams out his humiliating submission long before the angle of body parts would come anywhere close to what that car seat required.
Now the Marine might be able to get that sort of sharp angle up at the nipple level, the pecs, but he just couldn't lie belted tight into the back seat of a Buick with his ass up and cock down. The belt was holding him too close to the back of the seat for him to do any good here. The bone joint connection between his legs and pelvis below and between his pelvis and his spinal column above would not allow it. Well, it only took a few minutes of thrashing feet and straining upper body side muscles to get back into a more comfortable if still hopelessly trapped seated position. He took another small break, his magnificent chest rising and falling hard and fast as he was struggling with his air supply, skin glistening like he had coated himself with posing oil, cock still up and oozing.
The bright sun had moved in the last half hour and now there was a little shade on the first steps of the fire escape. As I sat there continuing to sip my drink, I could see the jarhead's Adam's apple sliding up and down, up and down, and realized how dry he must be, how he was swallowing and feeling the dehydration coming in his throat. That Adam's apple almost the size of a baseball riding up well in front of his tendon straining neck. It looked like a busy elevator in a Hyatt hotel sliding up and down, up and down along its straining tendon framed path. The sweat glands now in full pump. As the body fluids poured out, you could almost see the skin on his body shrinking down even tighter. That skin was pulling down on his body about as tight as they wrap those blank CDs and audiocassettes they ship in from the orient.
As the young man struggled in his Flint built sauna, I wondered what would happen if he got down to the point where he could no longer sweat. I guess that would be pretty bad, a serious core temperature emergency, but I wondered if he might go into a dog mode, the hanging tongue syndrome. Well, I thought I saw his tongue hanging down there now. The way he was belted in, he could take in all the air he wanted, his very tightly defined upper body looked great, his muscles contracted hard, pushed his chest up and out, helped him inhale a maximum amount of the super heated air; 130 degree air rushing in his now slack jaw past his loose hanging tongue.
Over in the shade sitting on the fire escape I finished my drink, crushing down the empty paper cup into a less than fistful compact mass. But watching him sweat and work made me so thirsty I had to start in on his Coke too. I sat there waiting for the "20" minutes to be up.
Inside the car, the Marine, and only because he was a Marine, had not given up. If he couldn't get to the buckle or stretch it he was going to break that belt. Of course GM had installed first quality belts meeting all the government standards. If you have a belt that will hold a 350 pound pregnant women safe and fast in her seat in a 50 mph head on crash, well, what can 150 pounds of firmly seated narrow hipped teen muscle do, even if those muscles are controlled by the high and tight topped head of very determined never-say-die Marine?
He had sort of moved on from working the belt release but was concentrating now on the car doors and the windows. All he had to do was angle his legs around, lift them up, like a ballet dancer, and use his bare toes to work the window control button, why hadn't he thought of that before? Be breathing cool air in a few seconds now; and revived; he could go back to the battle of the belt buckle.
Now he really had not been able to see what he was doing with his hands and fingers, those upper extremities being locked tight behind his back, palms out, in his very own cuffs, but at least he was used to working with his hands, and although blind and in reverse, could have worked the belt release button had he been able to get near it. On the other hand, using his toes and feet, well if using his cuffed hands was like steering a wave runner, trying to maneuver his legs and feet was more like docking an aircraft carrier without tugs. He could move his legs and feet but he didn't have that fine tuned control he did with his hands. God! How do those guys who don't have any arms learn to toe a keyboard or play the piano? It was a major and time-consuming job getting to that window control button and then applying the right pressure in the right direction. His gasping now rasping deep throat pants told him he didn't have too much time to be fooling around like a girl with his legs up in the air wiggling his toes.
He finally made contact! But after now reaching that button he pushed it and pulled it with his big toe but the window didn't move. It took him a good deal of effort to swing his body around to attack the other rear door window control. But no luck there either. As he realized that the baby safety control was set to keep any person in the back seat from lowering the windows, he remembered the rocker switch was way up front on the driver's door arm rest. He concluded it was impossible for a cuffed hip- belted jarhead in the back seat to reach that release control switch. His chance for escape became that much slimmer, even as he was getting slimmer from the dehydration. As these thoughts crossed his mind, he felt his cock wagging and the drool flow increasing. He so much wanted to win, to get out, but his cock knew already he was trapped; he would be forced into a humiliating naked cock-hard defeat.
The Marines had not only trained his body, but trained his mind in quick field-based real-time problem-solving and he had most of his mental skills still going for him as he moved on now from the window control to the door handle.
I'm sure the private was too busy to notice but his legs were really beautiful, the calves bulging trying to rotate the slender but linear manly foot and toe around to the door handle, the upper leg muscles taut as on the statue of a kneeling Greek athlete, trying to get that last few inches of movement up from his slim hips so firmly locked down deep into the bench seat, hips all the way up hard against the back cushion. To see him working his lower extremities was almost like watching a martial artist or top ballet star or even a trained gymnast in full Olympic performance mode.
But no matter how he worked his feet, and he could actually reach the door handle, he couldn't get it to release the door. Then in his dehydrating haze he gradually realized it was a two-step operation, unlock the lock and then open the door. Well, with even more effort and he about dislocated his hip on this one, he was able to bring his leg up so the foot just grazed the lock lever. He did move the lock lever up to the unlock position. Good, should have thought of this "10" minutes ago, he grunted, and gasped and then twisted his legs down to work those toes on the door release handle. He could barely see what he was doing; with that neatly trimmed blond head tilted over, salty Marine sweat was rushing into his eyes, burning them into a blinking squint.
Outside watching I was realizing the safety engineers had designed those Buick doors to stay locked to keep babies from falling out, they didn't have baby-faced Marine boots in mind, but their system was just as effective none the less. The full-muscled trained-up soldier would never be able to open either back door without first getting to the main electric door-lock button, but that was "safely" sitting well out of his range of movement up there forward on the driver's door.
The rapidly melting jarhead tried brute force. He really couldn't kick completely but he tried as hard as he could, and the safety engineers had him again, strong steel girders built right inside the door and a government mandated latch mechanism that would hold the door tight to the car body even after a freight train rammed it. What could one bare foot held at a glancing angle do? He could get some of both feet on one side of the back seat floor area, but could not move his hips up enough or have enough play in his joints to get both feet to bring any real double simultaneous pressure on one door. In fact he couldn't just sit there locked in the center of the bench and push on both doors at once, no, only one door at a time, and with one leg and not much at that.
Through all this leg workout, his thighs had been nudging and mashing and slamming his big ball sac around on the seat there below his tool and the tool itself was jerked around shoved up by the ball sac and around by the upper inside edges of his thighs, not to mention the ever changing angle of the front plane of his pelvis. The cock pointing out first to one front window then swinging over to point at the other, then down sort of drawing an imaginary bead on the drivers door armrest, then flopping stiffly over to focus on the front passenger door armrest, flinging a little sweat and lots of stringing drool all across the rear floor of the big Buick.
The Marine had no new ideas, just to keep bucking and twisting and pushing. That often does work, try everything again, come at slightly different angles, you never know. By now the efforts were more automatic, his body was running on Marine remote control, much like on those 25 mile full-pack runs in the heat of the South Carolina swamps. This freed up his mind to think about that damn photographer. When he got out of his car, that guy had better be nowhere around. He was going to really work him over. But wait a minute, it now seemed that really he couldn't get out without the help of that guy. And cuffed up he would only be able to use his feet. He could sure try a few kicks with the feet.but as soon as the cuffs were off, pow! He would show that tricky photographer a few close hand combat moves and it wouldn't be pretty. He could see his right and then his left fist slamming into that guy's gut, pushing down in past his muscle shield. He could even feel how the first few punches would sort of bounce off the guy's abs, but then there would be that sweet feeling of the whoosh as his jabs would begin to sink in deep into the belly. Thinking about how much fun it was going to be watching that guy fold up, throw up and collapse, the boot's cock now almost in pain from being full up for the "twenty" minutes, tensed in a tip-burning tingle and then suddenly shot a huge load, covering the front seat console and the floor mount gear shift; and then slowly in the heat the semen partially drained down.
Wow, was that good, but he looked around and he knew he was going to have to clean up his car when he got out, the whole back seat now was as wet as if he had taken a fire hose to it, and that back floor carpet was slippery from the heavy amount of male slime he had been depositing continuously as he was doing his isometrics there belted in the seat. There was work ahead for him before he picked up his mother at 7 p.m.
But his end was coming now; the electrolyte level was way out of balance now. Just when he was about to pass out, totally drained, he saw the photographer approach the car. He anxiously waited for the door to open, very humiliated that he lost the bet, he put his gaze down, best not to look the guy in the eye, better to look down, and then he saw that pool of cum soaking into the carpet and the bands of semen still hanging down from the gear shift and he was so ashamed that the guy would see how he shot his load, what kind of weirdo does that, gets off on being cuffed and held prisoner in a sweat box?
Well, there was nothing he could do about that. In fact there was little he could do about anything. He could breathe, but for how much longer? He could kick a little and buck, move his fingers, but he couldn't hide the evidence of his load shoot, couldn't tend to his thirst.
He could barely hear the photographer who was just outside the car, didn't even hear him drive up. Just had to wait until the photographer opened that door. He was trapped until that happened. How did he let that guy put him in such total bondage? And with his own cuffs and in the seat belt in his car?
That guy used only things the Marine already had. Talk about simple but effective bondage. Well, at least he got a good cardiovascular workout today. Mostly isometrics, but then he really didn't have much choice in that either. He also had a very good chance to hone skills in problem solving in the field under stress, a lot of stress. And by the way, he would have to remember this when he got back to the Marines, training for military prisoner-of-war interrogations. An enemy prisoner would be ready to do just about anything to get out of this trap.
The Marine's Adam's apple dropped deep down his neck as he gasped to himself, "so would I."
I came up toward the car as the recruit bowed his head in submission, not daring to look me in the eyes, not worthy of facing his captor. I acted like I was looking at my watch now showing he had been locked in his belt at least 40 minutes. I yelled in. "Just about 3 minutes left, but I really have to go now. When you get out of your belt you'll find your Coke over on the fire escape. Don't worry about paying me the $25; it was well worth that for me to see you doing your workout. Have a nice day!" I smiled as I walked out of the Marine's line of sight.
The hip-strapped jarhead quickly reviewed his options for escape, for self-release. They didn't look good, he felt like this was it, and he couldn't really kill himself either, just had to sit there naked, cock still up hard, cuffed and belted in his own car broiling and waiting to die of the heat and exhaustion and dehydration.
No one had been back there in "twenty" minutes and it looked like no one would show up until Monday morning. The roar of the street traffic and the distance back in from the road, plus the raised windows meant that even yelling out his loudest and manliest scream, no one would hear him, and with this thirst, he really didn't have a very loud yell now anyway. A few dry sweaks were about all that muscular teen could force out of his heat-parched voice box.
140 degrees now and still rising. The electrolyte problem was now even more serious. Legs, calves, arms were now beginning to cramp in their ion-depleted state. Where in the past he had tried to use his muscles to escape this trap, now his own muscles were working against him, torturing him in spasms of pain. He wished he could move his hands along his legs to soothe the burn, but could barely twist his wrists now still inescapably held behind the small of his naked heaving back. He was getting so weak that he was even losing a grip on some of the muscles he had not yet worked. As death came ever closer he was horrified to feel deep inside his lower upper body, behind that corded 8 pac, to feel some movement, muscles pushing and other muscles opening. Nausea flooded his senses as he tried to suppress what was a full projection vomit stream, but to his horror he felt the movement now flowing not up but down. He tried to hold his anal sphincters closed, but the low electrolyte and his near total exhaustion went against any rectum defense. It was like being locked down in a roller coaster clanking up the steep incline for that first big drop. He really would like to get out of the coaster car, to stop the train, to cancel the trip up to the drop, but there was nothing he could do about it. He would never do anything this gross, and never anything like this to his mother's new car, but he really was not in control of anything anymore. He was just along for the ride, he body doing its pre-death purging now and in spite of his hips being pressed tight into the seat cushion, he felt his intestines push out a hot full dump: impregnating the upholstery, then pooling there under his tight little butt; the stain on the seat slowly spreading out.
That back seat was a disaster zone, as was the center consol, but riding neatly on the front passenger seat were the precisely folded plaid boxers, the dark cargos, and on the floor were the carefully placed shoes and sox, undisturbed, and calmly waiting for their owner to pull them back on his smooth trim taut tan body.
He was both horrified and shamed and he rolled his eyes up ready to finally give up when without his permission there was a rush in his still thick prod. His cock now celebrated the second half of the jarhead's last rites; he felt more than actually saw his pole spray a long shot of dehydration-yellowed piss up onto the central forward consol. For this Marine the devil was out sweeping clean the welcome mat but at least going down to hell would mean cooler air than he was being broiled in now. He might be seated in a full-sized four-door sedan but he was as restricted as if he were stuffed into a dog cage, or a small tin prison camp sweatbox. An adult male at the peak of his physical power and yet held helpless as a baby in a child car seat. His only option left was the baby option; he bowed his head in shame and with infantile wails he cried and cried and cried.
When I heard that wailing and saw the blond high and tight head slump forward and saw that those strong bold masculine body movements were now down to a few cramping twitches, I knew I had him. I had broken him. And realizing that I felt my hard cock pulse in my underpants as it pumped my load.
I saw him bent, broken, and crying as I walked up to the car. The Marine was just barely alive but he was alive, he had survived the ordeal. He lost the bet, but he had taken it like a man. Only in these last few minutes had he begun crying like a baby, and that was understandable. He had ridden his car to near heat stroke and never asked to be released, never begged to be let out of his bet, he had taken it like a Marine.
I wondered how he would greet me, if he would be angry, happy, or conceivably in such a daze that he might think I were his drill instructor or perhaps a fellow Marine.
I clicked the remote locks and pulled open the rear door. A steam bath of superheated air with the stench of piss, cum, sweat and shit rolled out. It was only the flick of my finger and his belt unlocked. A simple flick, even a 5-year- old girl could have done it, but not that full muscled max boot trained jarhead cuffed and stuffed for almost an hour with his hips fast to the car frame.
He was so weak, and cramping so much I had to pull him out by his wide pumped shoulders and then he fell to his knees; his now unfocusing eyes stared up at me, his parched lips slowly moving, and I noticed that Marine mouth was right at my crotch. In his state, too much fluid might have been detrimental, but I realized I might be able to help him out a little. I pulled down my zipper and his lips quickly surrounded my cock. I doubt if he knew where he was or what he was doing, probably close to shock. But he was continuing in that baby mode, he had stopped wailing but was now sucking down hard on his baby bottle, my cock.
I didn't know if he had ever sucked a cock before, or had ever wanted to, but he was now sucking mine. In his semi-conscious state he was not using much of his tongue, and fortunately not much teeth, but the lips were gripping my member in a desperate tight clasp and his "pull" of suction was about the most I have ever felt a guy's mouth deliver. I guess Marines are trained in desert survival and in using urine to keep going. I'm not sure they train using the "direct" delivery method, but since his beverage cup was over at the fire escape I went with what was at hand, my cock down his throat.
I must say it was very difficult for me to help him out. Even though I had just shot a load in my pants, the desperate pull of his mouth, and the look of this handsome man, naked, cuffed, on his knees worshiping before me, well, my cock came up just too hard to piss through. I sort of regretted having cum already but then I didn't realize I would get to plug his mouth. Well, one should never really regret getting off a load. I guess I relaxed just enough finally that I was able to start a flow and give him a little urine to help lubricate his dry throat. It was only fair really, after all, part of what I was pumping into him was his own Coke.
This recycled liquid helped bring him back a notch or two from the heat prostration. After a few gasps of the cooler 90 degree air he was able to stand, naked, cuffed, silent, bowing and broken beside his own car. I was pretty sure he was still mentally on some boot camp survival drill, still surviving, but just barely. I heard him mumbling a sir, and I began to verbally put him down for his lack of bowel movement control and all this brought him to more humbling mumbles and sirs.
His nice trim butt was humiliatingly covered with a thin layer of his own reeking waste. He looked like a baby who had dumped in his diapers. I found his A-shirt and used it to wipe clean his baby smooth rear. I doubt if he would miss that A, doubt if he really used a shirt all that much anyway, I tossed it into the back seat of the sedan. The baby-faced baby-wailing butt-wiped Marine just stood there head hanging down with another sir!
I got the Buick fired up, set the A/C on full, ran down all the windows and the stench began to lessen, but the car would need a major cleaning. I told him his drink was over on the fire escape, but up on the fourth level. In his near death fog he could only think of quenching his thirst. Perhaps he even heard my "suggestion" that his drink was on the fire escape to actually be an order to run up the fire escape. It would be something the Marines would do, just barely recovered from near death and then off and running to climb 4 flights of stairs, and without a complaint, sir!
Forgotten were any plans to jump me; didn't consider anything other than trying to get that liquid. The Marine was not sure he could make it even to the fire escape and perhaps not up the stairs, but of course didn't tell that to me. That never-give-up mind-set was coming back, sir!
Actually he really never did give up, did he? So this was just a continuation, then, of his endurance training drill. He hadn't completed it, he wasn't home free, but he was still in the game, he was alive, he hadn't given up. He was fighting on. His balls and cock would live to shoot another day.
He began a slow staggering jog over to the escape, hands still locked in the small of his back, his freshly cleaned high tight little butt clenching and unclenching in coordinated symphony with his double-peaked muscular calves. It took him some time for his bare feet to negotiate the grid steps, cooler at the bottom but very hot as he got up past the shaded part. As he reached the top step, he got down on his knees and then bent down in that famous inverted U, his body even tighter and even trimmer than before. Butt high up in the air, head down, his parched lips grasped the straw and . he sucked in. about one swallow of hot water diluted with a small amount of cola.
He looked down to try to gasp something at me, to shout down at me to ask where was the full cool refreshing content of his beverage cup, but to his horror he saw me in the driver's seat of his mom's car, waving and telling him that when he wanted to go home, he would find the Buick parked across the street at the McDonald's. If the lot were full over there, then I would just park it on the street somewhere, maybe 3 or 4 blocks in from the fast food place. Sort of depended if I could stand the rear seat stench that long.
The Marine quickly noticed that my Ford was no longer in the industrial parking lot; in fact no other car was there. Only if the boot were to dive off the fire escape head first with hands cuffed behind from the fourth floor would he be able to make it to the LaSabre now smoothly accelerating down the narrow access drive between the industrial buildings. He knew his shoes and sox, his clothes, his money, his car and the keys to his tightly double-locked black steel cuffs were pulling out now into traffic and heading down the busy street.
He stood up, a little more revived now from the small sip of diluted cola, almost ready to try to run down the stairs even in his cuffs to try to catch his car, but then realized his situation. Well, if the guy left his car over at the fast food lot, perhaps he could wait until dark, and try to sneak across the street and get it. Would it be unlocked? Could he hide out for 5 or 6 more hours here without being seen? Was there any water nearby he could get to drink now? What was his mom going to say when he was late in returning her car? How would he clean up the shit in the back seat? If the car wasn't in the MacDonald's what was it going to be like searching out 7 or 8 square blocks of the area running around naked and cuffed? Could he work his cuffs down over his butt? Would he be able to unlock his cuffs when he did get to his car? How would he deal with anybody he met along the way? How would he explain his nudity and cuffs, and hard-on? And maybe that photographer would drive the Buick somewhere where he could never find it.
He thought he was humiliated enough already but then began thinking about this latest turn of events, the likelihood that he would be doing some barefoot naked street running and the probability of not being able to use his hands to shield his privates. What if he had to enlist the aid of another guy to help him get his car back? What did he now have to offer in payment? Just his mouth and his hole! As he imagined how it might be, another guy fucking him hard up his tight little butt, he looked down and saw his cock up at full military attention and felt another cum load fire out the end and drop down the 4 floors into the parking lot below.
A few blocks away, I pulled over to the curb, put the Buick in park, windows down, A/C blasting. I opened my fly, my hand enjoyed a few quality minutes with my throbbing gun as I decided if I should double back to the high and tight, or just leave his GM car here where I was stopped, grab my Ford and head on back home. In my head I saw the mental videotape replay of the cute recruit climbing that fire escape, saw his firm narrow high little butt, and I did sort of want to check out his hole. The sudden blast of my shot coating the LaSabre's instrument panel, caught me by surprise. Too bad I hadn't had enough time to build up a decent load back in the parking lot when I was down that guy's taut muscular throat.
I thought I remembered passing a car detailing place on the way to the mall, maybe I could get the Marine's car cleaned up for him and then return it, if he were still there waiting. By that time, I'm sure I would be ready to shoot again. On the other hand, would the Marine appreciate my cleaning and returning his car or would he prefer to finish out the field stress survival test in his own way? I could return to the parking lot right now and continue to add to the recruit's educationally "fulfilling" short leave experiences. But perhaps some dudes from the new suburb along the far side of railroad line would be taking a short cut over the tracks and through the industrial parking lot on their way to a big Mac. A couple of clean fresh jock buddies too young to drive but old enough to get it up. They might want to have some fun using the boot camp buffed high and tight too. I didn't want to be selfish.
The Marine climbed back down off the fire escape flexing his butt muscles as he carefully negotiated the burning steps, moving on the balls of his bare feet, his balance off a little with his hands cuffed behind his back. Eventually he was out in the middle of the parking lot, drinking from the pool of water left by the Buick's A/C, drinking on his knees, hands behind him, using his tongue, drinking like a dog. But further back between his legs his male member was full-streaming, excited at the prospects of jogging down the drive and out onto the busy street, looking for his car bare balled and along the way perhaps having to take a real man up his hole. Not needing to hurry, the chained nude humiliated jarhead kneeled down in his precum, passive, waiting, the hot sun highlighting the "high" part of his blond haircut, the strong summer rays also beaming down to his tool drool pool and then reflecting back up illuminating his underside: his 8 pac; his nippled pecs; his Adam's apple and his strong male jaw line. The Marine had been put through a horrible test, and one that was not yet over, but he had taken it like a man, and now being naked, cuffed, thirsty and abandoned, well, solving all those problems would be a lot easier than it had been trying to reach that seatbelt release button.
As he bobbed up and down to dog-lap a few more tongue- fulls of liquid left from his car's A/C condenser, down between his strong muscle strapped thighs his still unstroked teen-hard cock jumped up parallel with the blacktop of the parking lot, pointing stiffly toward his chin, his freshly wiped long-virgin hole feeling UV rays for its first time winked open and clamped down a couple times, his tight-locked palms-out wrists actually were riding pretty comfortably now up there on the small of his back.
He considered his situation. He had had a good workout. He really didn't have anything scheduled for the rest of the afternoon; he was getting a nice tan.
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