Twelve Days with Sgt Tate

Sgt Tate starts dressing as I squat near a tree to expel his piss. It's a long drive back, and piss should not be leaking from my hole.

I get up trying not to let any of the remaining wet cum run off my face. I put on my shorts only, as a t-shirt would wipe some cum off.

We both leave the bushes. There are two vehicles in the lot: Sarge's truck and a Department of Transportation vehicle.

As we approach the truck, we are asked, "Did you guys have fun back there?" A Hispanic man comes around the DOT vehicle.

"Yes we did." Sgt Tate replies very bluntly.

"Good to hear." The Hispanic worker winks then smiles. This must be the worker that Officer Blakely said was the one who fought to keep this place open.

He looks at me.

"You had a good time I see." He reaches into one compartment of the DOT truck and pulls out three rolls of toilet paper. He tears off a good amount and hands it to me.

Sgt Tate interrupts, "This boy has had to survive a whole weekend without toilet paper, I will not allow him to change that now."

The worker smiles, shakes his head, and turns towards the bathroom with the toilet paper.

Tate wraps his arm around my neck, pulling me in to his torso as we walk back to the truck. He leans over to kiss me on the head.

"Get in" are the only two words spoken for the next thirty minutes. I am exhausted. My hole gets to relax without worrying about what might come next.

Sgt Tate pulls off the highway only to drive a few miles to a mall. It looks like every strip mall in my town. A mix of stores offer a strange allotment of services, a tax preparation office, dry cleaners, a gun shop, sandwich stop, a video store, and a shoe store.

"Get dressed." He tells me as he gets out. What do I have to wear? My shorts are in desperate need of a good wash. The T-shirt could stand by itself. But, I am in some nameless town. What do I care what they think of me?

I see Sgt Tate walking into the gun shop. What is he doing now?

I follow into the store taking my time. The bell on the door announces my arrival. The husband and wife behind the counter notice me.

"He's with me." Sgt Tate announces. "It was all supposed to be arranged when I got here by Blakely."

The husband and wife look at each other. The husband speaks in very broken English, "I'm sorry sir, but I do not know Blakely. We follow the laws of the state." I cannot place his accent.

The wife says something to her husband in a different language. He responds back. It doesn't sound anywhere near the French I learned in high school that I never used. This has a more Russian sound to it.

Looking over, I see a sign with Russian lettering; I recognize the backwards 'R'. So they are probably immigrants from Russia.

The husband talks back to the wife.

Sgt Tate interrupts, "I am not with the AFT or the State police. Just get my ammunition from back and we will be on our way."

"I'm sorry Sir, but we do not have your ammunition."

"Ask your wife; she just told you that she saw them on the file cabinet in back." The couple looks at him. "Aw, hell!" Then Sgt Tate catches them and me completely off guard when he starts speaking to them in Russian, and not just broken Russian. I don't understand it, but I can see, just by the way he does not stumble over the words nor stop to collect his thoughts, that he is fluent.

The couple relaxes their stance and actually interacts with him. After a few minutes or so, they are laughing with him. He takes out some money and buys the ammunition without a problem, and more importantly without ID.

Seeing him speak another language is damn sexy. I would never have guessed that he had this ability. My dad never told me.

"Let's go."

We leave. Climbing into the cab of the truck, Sgt Tate looks at me. I don't see his arm rise up, but he backhands me across the face. It tingles in pain.

"I wish your father was here so that I can smack him upside his head. But since he is not, your head will have to do."

"Sir?"

"Your dad brought up the ammunition to the lodge, but didn't fucking take it out of his truck when he drove Junior to the hospital."

"Sir, I didn't know you spoke Russian."

"And you best forget it."

"I'm sorry Sir?"

"Not many people know that I am fluent in Russian or any other language. I want it that way."

"Why not Sir?"

"That's none of your business."

He drives off. We ride for about fifteen minutes when he continues the conversation as if it was uninterrupted.

"When I say for you to forget it, I don't want anyone know that I speak other languages."

He speaks more than one?

"I have my reasons."

"What else do you speak?"

"So much for forgetting it." He laughs to himself. "Polish, Russian, German, some Dutch, and a little Vietnamese and Japanese."

"Wow. I would never have guessed."

"And you never will again."

"How did you learn them?"

"Spock came down from the planet Vulcan and mind melded with me. How else do you think I learned? Like everyone else! One word at a time." He grunts, raises an eyebrow, and looks down at me. He breaks his hard look and smiles at me. "Kid, you are an inquisitive little fuck. That can be a good thing, and that can be a bad thing, a very bad thing. You need to be more observant. And I'm not talking about in your role as my bitch. Observant in life!"

He reaches over to me and thumps me on the head.

"Use this. Now, what language did I speak in there?"

Nervously, I say, "Russian?"

"Why do you say that?"

"I saw in their shop they had a sign with Russian letters."

"Tell me what else did you observe?"

I try to recall. "You spoke it fluently."

"How do you know? Do you speak it?"

"No Sir. You didn't pause to think. And, they understood you, even laughed."

"Good, now where did I learn it? Think before you answer."

Wow, what a question. Did he learn it in school? I can't imagine a school teaching Russian, especially when he was a boy. Was it his time in the Marines? He was a drill instructor; why would he need to learn it? This seemed more natural. He must have learned it as a boy, but I don't know how. "You learned it as a boy."

"Who taught me?"

Wow, he's testing me. It must have been in school. But he just asked me "Who" which is a person. So it is probably one person. Could it be his father? But then "Tate" doesn't sound Russian. "Your mother Sir?"

He starts laughing. "Now where did you come up with that?"

"You said 'Who' which is a person. I figured that you learned it at an early age. So it was a toss up between you mom and dad. I went with your mom because your last name doesn't sound Russian."

"Well damn boy! Your dad and ma were right. You do have brains. Completely wrong here, but you are thinking. I'll give you that. No, I learned Russian in college, I spoke it a little before hand."

Oh well, at least he is impressed.

"But, I did learn Polish from my mother, as a boy. That's how I was able to pick up Russian. So you did get something right."

"Your mother is Polish?"

"No, she's fucking Swahili, and spoke with that 'click click click'. Yes she was Polish. Born and raised outside of Warsaw, but being Jewish in Poland in the late thirties, her family left for the United States."

"Is your dad Polish?"

"Does 'Tate' sound Polish to you? You answered your own question not five seconds ago. No, my dad's side is from Wales."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"No. Do you want me to break out my family tree? I have a pocket sized one in my wallet, that I put in there whenever some fuck decides to find out my family history." After a pause, he continues in his conversational tone, "My mom used to tell me that I was too much to handle. I don't know why she'd say that. I was a good kid. Really. Never got into trouble. Well, at least I never got caught. I pretty much did what a boy did back then. My mom told me I should focus on my studies. I took science classes; I loved physics. My head was always in books. I was very much like you." He pauses. "Except I didn't take every dick in a five mile radius up the ass like you enjoy doing." Laughter by both of us is followed by, "I was always building and creating things--molding a pile of nothingness into something useful."

"How did you wind up in the Marines?"

"My parents couldn't afford college more than a year or two, so I had to drop out. They did their best, god bless 'em. They did whatever they could for me. But I knew that going into the Marines would pay for college. So I signed up. My mom cried when I went off. She was worried that we would go back into Vietnam, right after we left it. But it was the best decision ever!"

I realize that this is the first I have heard about Tate, the man. I can hear Joe's words of advice to find out more about him. I am actually kinda surprised. I would never have thought that he is this smart, knowing the languages and studying science. It also amazes me that he came from such a supportive family. I thought he would have been from some broken down family, like me.

Since he is being open here, I decide to find out more. "When did you get married?"

"Married? I've never been married. Why do you ask?"

"Didn't you tell the guy earlier that you were married for six years?"

"What? Oh that. No, I have never found the right woman who will put up with what I expect. Now it may be hard for you to imagine, but it's hard to live with me." He glances over at me. "And about the ballplayer, I was just saying that. I was trying to get him to relax and let me in his hole. And it worked."

"Sir, he didn't want to get fucked."

"So? But he wanted my cock fucking him in the end." He laughs at his pun.

"But Sir, . . ."

Sgt Tate cuts me off. "You think I raped him? Damn boy. Here I thought you and I were bonding."

"It really freaked me out to see that."

"He wanted it. Trust me, I know men. I have made a living knowing men--what makes them work and what works them. I study their demeanor, their word choice, and their body language. I use this to find out more about them than they are willing to admit, even to themselves. He's definitely a fag waiting to hear Streisand for the first time. He'll be thinking of that fuck for the rest of his drive, the rest of the week, and the weeks to come. He'll contact me probably in about a month's time, after placing a couple of calls where he will hang up without saying a word. I put my seed in him; now it just needs to grow. It all takes time."

I sense that this is not a topic to continue. As he codifies his reasoning, I just stare out the window. This reminds me of when my dad was driving me to the lodge. I feel a certain level of tension.

I break it. "So what was my dad like in the Marines? I've only heard his version of the story."

Sgt Tate erupts in laughter.

"Your dad? Oh man! He was a fucking great Marine. Once he got his head screwed on straight, he was dependable. Your dad has a great knack for machines. He understands how something works by just looking at it more than anyone I ever met. He could easily take apart a fleet of transports and reassemble it without any problem. Hell, he would help me with my inventions, fabricating what I needed. The brass had him as their mechanic, but he really needed to be elsewhere."

I am surprised to know that my dad has a way with mechanics. I know he works at the local tractor garage and has for the longest time. But I always thought that he was just another mechanic.

"He was truly gifted when it comes to machines. The funny thing is that he didn't start that way. He was a fuckup if there ever were a fuck up, more so than the typical Jarhead that enlists. Your dad couldn't boil water without a recipe. He was constantly getting into trouble. The trouble was always a result of him and his whores."

My dad loves women, especially prostitutes. He feels better when he pays for a woman. He is always sneaking out of the house. I know he goes to the local strip joint and fucks the whore of the night. Since my mom died, he doesn't hide it from me. Some men spend their money on drugs or alcohol, but he pays women.

I don't know what my mom saw in him. I really don't. He is late for just about everything, when he shows up. When I graduated from High School, he ditched me that night in order to get in at happy hour at the titty bar. He has wanted me to go with one of his 'girls', but deep down I know he doesn't want me there. So it doesn't surprise me that when Sgt Tate paid for a week long whore to be with him, that he jumped for the chance, even if that meant ditching me.

I've gotten used to the whores. I have. What annoys me is how much energy he spends towards them. When he's not working on tractors, he's thinking of whores.

"I actually had to sit him down one day and smack some sense into him. He's a good man, but damn! The whores seem to dominate his life. I told him that he has a long career in the service as a mechanics expert, that the Marines will train him to be the best. After serving, he could go into anything he wanted. The first thing he needed to do was give up the whores. Well, at least only have one every so often. At first he did just that. He was excelling at fabricating mechanics on the spot. Hell, he helped me out with my creations a number of times. But after a while, he started showing up late due to his whores again. It's sad really."

"He hasn't changed much."

"I know. I can't believe he managed to snag you mother. She was a patient woman. I had a lot of respect for her."

What? My mom couldn't stand Tate. All I ever heard about was how much of an asshole he is.

"She is one of the few people who ever challenged me and never backed down. I like that." He glances at me and squints. "But don't you fucking get any ideas there, bitch." He looks forward. "I just don't get what she saw in him. As long as I can remember, he was a fuckup. He once reported back to base six hours late. He was charged with a UA." Realizing that he is using jargon, he adds, "That's an unauthorized absence. It's like AWOL in the Army, but handled better by the Marines. I smoked his ass. I gave him battalion duty two weekends in a row. And yet, he still didn't learn his lesson. The next month he was charged with a second UA. He was reprimanded officially.

"I really smoked him. In addition to everything he was responsible for he was given office duty. That was he was reporting to do whatever menial task I could think of. He had to clean the ladder wells--that's the stairs, sweeping the deck, washing the portals, spit shining my boots. I had him do all my boots.

"But, my favorite duty I had him do was scrubbing the head. After he cleaned the sinks. I would take him into the shitter and have him clean the grime. I would point out the dried Marine cum on the floor just waiting to be cleaned. The grunts would jerk off when their balls were blue. They didn't have a whore to fuck; they had their right hand. I could tell he didn't want to think about it. That was his weakness. I reveled in telling him about how his fellow grunts would flog the dolphin. I don't need to tell you that your dad hates fags like you."

Well fuck! Thanks for pointing that out to me.

"I had him use his own toothbrush to scrub it clean. I knew he would have gladly have suffered bad oral hygiene rather than stick that toothbrush back in his mouth. After he was done, I had him meet me in my head.

"I pointed out my cum on the floor. He was convulsing knowing the name that went with the dried cum. He spent most of his time in here cleaning. I would have him restart for the most negligent infraction. When I felt he was done, I told him that he finally cleaned my head spotless. He was about to get up when I ordered him back on his hands and knees.

"To fuck with his head, I dropped my trousers to the floor, my cock flopping inches from his face."

Now I am both disgusted and aroused. This is my dad--the same one who would beat the shit out of me if he knew that I am gay. And here he was on all fours in front of Sgt Tate's cock--the same one I ride, blow, drink from, and drain. This is really hitting me a little close to home.

"I told him to look at it. He reluctantly did just that. He told me that he wasn't going to blow me. I said, 'Who said anything about you blowing me? What are you a faggot or something? No I need to take a shit.' I sat on the shitter now that it was spotless. I extended my leg to him and said, 'There's a spot on my boot. Clean it.' Now I knew that I was crossing a line. He was clearly disgusted with what I was putting him through. To break the tension I told him, 'I'm not asking for you to lick it off. But if you don't move your sorry ass, you will be treating my boots like an ice cream cone.' He took a rag and started to wipe it clean. I could feel his pressure in my toes. I let go a big dump. He looked up at me once again disgusted. ÔGet back to cleaning.' He did the other boot."

I look at Sgt Tate driving. His entire hard edge look is gone. He is enjoying telling me that he once seduced my dad. One thing I notice is that his cock is creating a sizeable bulge. He is getting off on this.

"I told him to sit back on his heels. When he does, he sees me with my cock in my hand. I am stroking it. It's not at full mast, but it sizeable. I say, 'Stevens, I like you. So I'll make you an offer.' He has a completely blank face. 'I have to really smoke your ass. You have two UA's within a few weeks' time. Your fuckups are in your permanent record. Now you have two choices. I can make the rest of your office duties a living hell, or you can help me out here.' All the while I am jerking my cock. It is rock hard. I told him that the choice is his. He thought about it, and just stared at my hand riding my cock."

My god! He's telling me that he blackmailed my dad into having sex with him.

"He began to reach over to me. I was so fucking turned on to seeing his head fuckin' spinning around. But before his hand touched my cock, it stopped in mid air."

As he drives with one hand, Sgt Tate's hand is rubbing his crotch with the other one. We start to slow down. I realize that he is coming to a stop at the end of an off ramp. There is nothing here. I have no idea why we are here. He turns right. All I see down this road is a straight road with farms on both sides. No cars on the road. We are in the middle of nowhere, and we are going there very fast.

"I told him that he better make up his mind. Instinctually his hand approached my cock that was leaking. He just couldn't touch it, but it was almost there. I used my cock to slap his hand. 'There motherfucker! You touched it! Don't be a nelly bitch! Grab it like a man!' With that he took a hold of it. He couldn't look at me. 'Now move your hand up and down real fast.' Instead, he pulled away his hand and said 'I'm, not a fag.'"

Well, that is a surprise. My dad's immoveable object won over Sgt Tate's irresistible force. "What did you do Sir?"

"I told him to look at me. I started up jerking again. I could see the shame in his eyes, the regret. It was so fucking hot. I didn't say a word. I just stared at him. Not ten strokes were needed and my spooge was landing on the floor. I didn't shout out or convulse, even though my body wanted me to react to my fucking cum dump. I got up with my cock still rock hard--still dripping huge ropes of cum."

The truck is slowing down in the middle of nothing. All I see is farming fields in every direction. There is not another car on the road. I don't know what we are doing here.

He continues his story, "I pulled up my pants, but kept my cock hanging out. There was a rope of cum on my fingers. With a quick flick, I sent it flying. There is no way that I could repeat the feat of having it land on his head, stretching between his forehead, eyebrow, and cheek. I tucked my cock away and said to him in a quiet soft conversational voice, 'No, you're not a fag. Clean my cum off your face.' I started to walk out. I left him there on his knees staring down."

We come to a complete stop on the side of the road.

"That was one of my favorite cum dumps I have ever had." He looks at me. "Get out." He opens his door and jumps out. Reluctantly I get out. I stand by the truck at Sgt Tate comes around. His cock his out of his trousers, rock hard and moist with pre cum.

I am pushed violently to my knees, and his cock is shoved down my throat. He takes my head into his hands and starts fucking my mouth. His dick is shoved in with such force that I cannot show any resistance. I instinctively put my hands on his thighs.

"Boy you better move those hands to the small of your back."

I do. He picks up speed. His thrusts are deep and fast, very fast. The force is wreaking havoc on my throat. My mouth tries to accommodate by producing a lot of spit. But what winds up happening is that the spit drools out of the sides of my mouth. This is one sloppy blowjob.

I do the best I can to accommodate his skull fucking. Between his cock and my spit, breathing is an issue.

While continually slamming his cock into my mouth, he cums in my mouth and throat. His pace slows down as his orgasm subsides. I swallow it much of it down, but some dribbles out of my mouth. It's hard to tell the difference between his cum and my spit pouring out my mouth.

Looking up at Tate, with his cock still in my mouth, my glance is met with his smiling face. He pats me on the head like he would a dog.

I start to pull off, but his hand holds me in place. As I think about he will probably be pissing next, the piss starts to flow. I swallow that too. By the time he is done pissing, his dick is soft.

He pulls out and tucks it away. "No, you're not a fag either."

What the fuck does that mean? I know he's making reference to his story, but really, what does that mean? He's fucking with my head.

I climb back into the cab. We head back towards the highway on our way back to the lodge.

The drive back to the lodge is uneventful. Mostly we talk about school and other things. He is very interested in my future classes. He constantly stresses that I am to continue on in college.

I am truly amazed at the difference in his demeanor. He's not in perpetual Drill Instructor mode. I still maintain my respect by calling him "Sir," but asking for permission to speak seems to have ebbed.

As we pull up, the lodge looks completely different, not physically, but a much different place than when I left it. It is getting close to sunset.

I guess I am the one who has changed. It feels like a whole year has passed since we left.

Sgt Tate drives around to the side and down the slope to a door that I hadn't noticed before. He parks a little past the door.

He gets out and walks over to the door. I join him. The door opens up into his gym in his basement.

"Grab a box and start unloading in the dungeon."

We empty the truck in no time. Some of the boxes are heavy, some are light, some have loose items, others are big, and some are boxes within boxes. He has two unboxed rimseats.

Half way through the unpacking, he orders me to strip, and he follows. It feels great to be naked with him. We both stink mostly due to the sweat.

He takes out a knife and starts cutting open the boxes. They are nothing but sex toys and sex furniture. I have seen a whipping bench on the internet, and here is one just like it. A leather sling is unrolled and inspected.

"This is my custom made sling." He shows me one end--the wide end. The sling is two thick pieces of leather, joined together around the sides and top but with snaps forming a row along side the bottom. He unsnaps the six of them to show the pocket formed. "I have a board that goes in between that will make this sling rigid." This is the first time I have seen a sling, so I don't see the benefits for having it or not. "I gave Randy the design on the first night, and he had it ready when I left you at the rest area with Joe." So that's what happened to him. He went shopping for this stuff. "Set it by the stairs." I place the by the stairs in the gym.

Whips go on the wall. Some of them look real painful. It's strange, while some still elude me, I know a lot about the objects in this room, yet have no clue as to how they feel, about what sensation they offer, nor the level of intensity they can inflict.

Sgt Tate is placing everything away in spaces that they seem to have always belonged. This dungeon is recently remodeled. Now with all the items in place, it seems like this is the way it has always been.

Sgt Tate tosses me leather strip. "Here, put this with the sling." It is a long piece of leather with a ring on each end. I place it on the stairs next to the sling. As I walk away it falls between two steps and lands behind and underneath the staircase.

"Damn it boy."

I kneel down to reach between them and get out the strap. My hand clears the space between the stairs, but my arm cannot contort to get the strap out.

Sgt Tate comes over to me. "There's a door in the closet that will lead to that storage space. It's full, so you will need to take out just about everything."

He returns to the dungeon as I start emptying out the contents from under the stairs. Mostly it is Marine memorabilia, such as mugs, clocks, paperweights, etc. I have seen some of it with in my Dad's stuff; most items are from family members and friends who don't put much thought to their gifts.

I begin to crawl in the storage space, as it is being emptied. As I pull out a box, my ass hangs out of the crawl space. When my ass is out, but my torso remains under the stairs, I feel a boot on my ass.

I stop.

"Well isn't this a pretty sight?"

Oh no. What is he going to do now? I feel a blunt object at my asshole. It has some lube on it, which helps it go in. The butt plug slides into place. I smile and shake my head. He takes advantage of every opportunity.

"Hold still." I feel a light but firm kick in my asshole from his boot. "I just want to make sure it's in there. When you get the strap, bring it and the sling into my office."

As my asshole adjusts to the plug, I continue to remove the boxes from the storage space. There are a dozen or so boxes and cases, two are big, some small, one very long one case, a couple of cases are finely made, and one box is ready to collapse.

I retrieve the strap and race upstairs with it in my hands, without putting the boxes back. I should have put them back, but I will do that before he sees them.

Walking into the office I see him standing on a wooden stool about a foot and a half high. He has chains in his hands. "Boy, bring me the sling and the strap here."

He reaches up to the ten-foot ceilings from the box and fastens the chains to the recessed hooks in the ceiling. Until now, I had not noticed them. There seems to be a number of them. He hangs four chains in all. He gets the sling.

After a couple of snaps, the sling is set up. The narrow portion of the sling, where the torso and head would lay, hangs from the chains further from the window. So as whoever is lying in the sling can look out.

"Bring me the leg supports."

"That strap?" I point to the strap that got lost under the stairs.

"No, they look like hooks padded with leather. They're next to the map over there."

I look around and initially don't see them. I see them and pick them up. They look like padded grappling hooks. He adds them to the chains closest to the window. They swing free.

"With the hooks on, whoever is in the sling can put their legs up and down without fighting those goddamned straps." That makes sense. "Boy get over here and bring that strap." I go over to him. He points to the floor in front of the sling. "Sit." I sit on the floor, right on the butt plug he shoved in when I was under the stairs.

I turn to face the sling. He snaps the strap behind my head to the sling's leg chains. My head is trapped between the sling and the strap.

Sgt Tate throws his leg over the sling so that he stands in front of me straddling the sling. I look at him. He smiles like he did at the rest area. I know that he is going to do something to me.

He sits down on the sling, with his cock less than an inch from my mouth. I start sucking on the head. Sgt Tate leans back and his cock flops out of my mouth. His legs go up into the hooks. I stare at his pendulous balls. He shifts his sizable weight around, and I understand his whole reason for this set up.

His ass slides down the sling and my face goes directly into his crack. I can still breathe, but I cannot pull away. His legs being up and spread opens up his crack and hole for my tongue perfectly. My view of his face is not obscured.

I start licking. I haven't licked his asshole since this morning at the rest area. From all the sweat we have been pouring out, his crack definitely has a musky smell and taste.

"Damn, nothing gets better than this. Here I am looking out at my land, my own lake, from my lodge, with my boy's tongue buried up my shitter. Bitch, reach up and around and play with my nipples."

I reach up around his thick, hairy, torso to his nubs. I roll them in my fingers.

"That's it boy." He folds his arms on his chest, trapping my hands on his nipples. "I'm going to take a nap, and I don't want you stopping your tongue or your fingers while I doze off."

Oh shit. I have to lick for a while. I don't know if I can. Wait. What am I saying? Of course I can. I love eating his ass.

After a few moments, I hear him snoring.

I am taken aback at Sgt Tate's change. At the rest area he was a sociopath with little humanity--to use Joe's words. Now he is different. I don't know what caused him to change, but I am glad that he did.

I hope that I get the nicer Tate for the remainder of my visit here. I still have about five and a half days left.

Hopefully I don't have to rim him constantly for those five and a half days. After five and a half minutes of rimming him in this sling since he started snoring, I am bored. My tongue aches. So do my fingers.

How long do I can I go with this? He'll stop it when he wakes up. When will that be? It could be hours. It could be minutes. If I could wake him up without him knowing, that would be great. But how?

I slowly start to increase pressure to his nipples. His snoring stops and he licks his lips. Well that works! His hands reach for his cock.

He begins jacking; his bouncing balls on my nose interfere with my ability to breathe freely.

"Fuck this feels great. Get that tongue in there deep. I may have a gift for you."

Oh no.

"I wish I could keep your tongue up there all the time. It feels great to have . . ."

His words drop off. I look up at him. He sees something outside. I cannot turn my head around due to his ass cheeks keeping me in place.

He takes his legs down from the hooks, causing his hard-on to thump me on face. He climbs out of the sling.

"Get up."

Sgt Tate races to his desk as I fight to get my head free of the strap and sling. I stand up and look out the window. I don't see anything out of the ordinary. I scan around. It's hard to see with the sun about to set. I finally see four deer near the lake.

"Don't move. I'll need for you to tell me where they go once they start to run."

I look over at Sgt Tate; he is unlocking and removing a rifle from the cabinet. He takes the box of ammunition that we bought today and starts loading while he races out of the room.

I look back at the deer. One remains at the lake the other three went into the woods towards the right.

I hear a shot. It vibrates the window. Off to the right, I see Sgt Tate running naked head to toe except for his unlaced boots.

The single deer runs in the opposite direction from the other three deer. Sgt Tate runs down the hill. It's really hot to see that large man running naked. His muscular ass cheeks look so good. I want to stick my tongue in there. It seems like an eternity since I did just that, even though it is just two minutes ago. Why did I wake him up? I could still be licking away.

He looks back at me. I show him my index finger and then point in the direction of where the singleton deer went. Then three fingers are shown before I point to where the three ran.

He runs towards the three, but doesn't go very far. He just stands there looking the area, assessing the situation, with his rifle at his side.

God, he looks fucking sexy there--naked, rifle in hand, and all the confidence in world.

He walks back to the lodge. I leave the office into the main living area, out the doors onto the deck and down the stairs to see him walking up, his cock swaying like a pendulum.

He walks up to me and kisses me deeply--not what I expect, but I will gladly take it.

"I'm hungry. You?"

"Yes Sir."

"Well make us something to eat."

We walk inside. "What would you like Sir?"

"I don't know." He walks to the refrigerator and opens it. "There's nothing up here. Come with me." He walks downstairs into the gym.

He passes and overlooks the boxes that I didn't put back. I follow him in the direction away from the dungeon into a side room. It is quite large. This is his workroom. It is filled with tools, machines, and things that I don't have a clue to what they do. I move at a healthy clip that I don't even pay attention to what these things could be.

Passing through the mechanical clutter to a small garage-like washroom. It has a garage door at one end; a large stainless steel worktable is in the middle of the room. Along the far side of the room is an industrial sink at the other. Next to sink are a walk-in freezer and a walk-in meat locker.

"This is where we butcher our kills. Hopefully it gets used this trip."

He opens the door to the freezer and steps in. I follow. It is cold to my naked body.

"Well there really isn't time to thaw things out. So let's see." He looks around. "Pizza."

"Sounds good Sir."

He takes two frozen individual pizzas off the shelf and hands them to me. He grabs another package. This one has beef in it. A gigantic slab of frozen beef, too much for the two of us, but really can't be broken up.

"We might as well thaw for tomorrow."

I carry all the frozen packages out of the freezer and the workroom.

We walk into the gym, and it is impossible not to miss the boxes.

"Fuck boy! What are these boxes doing out? Go upstairs and drop off the . . ." His thought trails off.

Sgt Tate is staring at the boxes, but his stare is completely different than looking at a pile of boxes of shit. His jaw has dropped about an inch causing his mouth to part a little. His eyes are like his body, motionless. It looks like he has seen something horrific.

"What Sir?"

"No fucking way. NO FUCKING WAY!"

He lunges towards the boxes and grabs the very long thin case.

I don't understand what is in the case, nor his reaction. "What is it Sir?"

He opens it up. From my angle, I cannot see inside. He inhales deeply as his eyes open wide. Then his face changes form surprise to relief and then happiness. I haven't seen Sgt Tate in this state of uncontrolled delight.

The box is slammed shut. Sgt Tate quickly runs up the stairs. I go after him. I don't see him in the living room or the kitchen area. I drop the frozen food on the kitchen table. I walk into his office where I see him standing at his desk with the case on his desk open. I finally see inside.

Inside is a sword. It sits in the middle of dark red velvet. Actually I would say the color is scarlet. There is some shiny gold lettering. It says, "United States Marine Corps."

"Boy, you don't know what this is do you?"

"Your sword?"

"No, I guess you don't. This is the sword belonging to a US Marine. It is thirty-five and a half inches long with a history that goes back over one hundred fifty years."

He swiftly picks up the sword still in its sheath holding it in his left hand.

"It is the only sword given to a Non Commissioned Officer in any of the Armed Services. And with its presentation to any Marine, it connects him with all the Marines that have carried one before him."

Stepping into the center of the office, his look upon the sword switches from reverence to formality as he shouts, "DRAW . . ." He draws with military precision the sword from its sheath a little less than a foot using his right hand. His forearm is unnaturally parallel to the floor, but it looks regulatory.

He follows it up by shouting out, " . . . SWORD!" The sword is drawn quickly and respectfully from the sheath to its full extent, pointing directly to the front at a laser precise forty-five degree angle. The sword's blade begins a line that continues through Sgt Tate's arm. It's good that the ceiling in this room is ten feet. After a moment of being completely motionless, the blade snaps to rest vertically along side his shoulder with his right arm is fully extended downward.

"PREEEE-SENT . . ."

The sword is swiftly raised vertically with his hand in front of his neck. Only his forearm moves; his elbow remains against his body. The blade has fallen from its true vertical pose to a position not quite forty-five degrees.

I am truly amazed. His arm is rigid. His stance is formal. His chest stands proud. Sgt Tate does not have one stitch of clothing on him, and yet there is no doubt in my mind that this man is a Marine. His uniform doesn't need to be there.

The intensity in his face begins to crack. Tears begin to well up in his eyes, and his jaw starts to shake.

" . . . SWORD!"

The sword cracks the air to point downward. It looks like he's going to slice the floor with it, but he stops the tip from touching the floor by a few inches. His right arm is straight downward along his side.

He stares at the fireplace directly in front of him, but it is not the fireplace he is looking at. That fireplace does not need to be there. His stare is towards a great distance ahead. A tear rolls down along side his nose only to get lost in his moustache.

I have not budged in the thirty seconds or so he takes to go through this presentation.

Sgt Tate raises an eyebrow to look at me. I still don't move. He is the one who breaks his form; his body relaxes and the sword gets sheathed. Sgt Tate returns the sword to its case.

Realizing that I saw him tear up, he responds with "Fucking allergies. Boy, you don't know what you have found for me. I have been looking for this for a few years now. You see those two pegs up there." He points to the wall behind his desk. There are two pegs that are curiously mounted on the wall about four feet off the floor below a folded up and encased flag. "This sword belongs on that wall. Ever since I redid this room, those pegs remained empty. I thought this was sent to my house for safekeeping. When I went to go retrieve it, I could not find it. I searched all over the place. I actually thought that the movers I hired to move the old furniture from here to my storage space actually took it. I never thought that it was under the stairs with all that Marine chotchke crap I have collected over the years."

"Wow, Sir. It must be great to get your sword back."

Sgt Tate walks over to his desk and retrieves a cloth.

"Oh this is not my sword. Mine is on display at my home. No, this is the sword belonging to Gunnery Sergeant Brock Valley. Everyone called him Gunny. He's the man who made me who I am."

Sgt Tate walks over to the couch with the cloth and the sword. He sits and spreads his legs. His cock rests on the couch.

"Why don't you make yourself useful and rub my feet."

I get on the floor and take his big left foot in my hand. I have never rubbed a foot before and I just start rubbing.

"Aw hell!" He uses his right foot to lightly kick me in the head. "Push your hands into my feet. Grind your thumbs into the ball and heel of my foot."

I do as he instructs.

"Gunny Valley. Hmmm. What a man! When he walked into any room, everyone's eyes went directly to him. He was always snarling with an unlit half smoked cigar hanging out of his mouth. Speaking of cigars, why don't you get my cigar over behind my desk and a lighter?"

I get up and retrieve it for him. He lights it as I return to rubbing, but this time on the other foot.

He begins to polish the sword.

"Let me see, I joined in '75. I first saw him when I was at Camp Geiger for SOI, . . . um, that would be the School of Infantry. I briefly met him, but I'll never forget. Before they modernized everything, the urinals at Geiger were the kind that went to the floor. I was at a urinal taking a big piss and he came in and barked a question at me. He came up to me and shouted in my ear, 'Don't you dare talk to me while holding that pathetic excuse for a prick in your hands.' He stood right here." Sgt Tate holds a flat hand about an inch from the side of his head. "I couldn't get a good look at him. The only thing he said was 'Beat your face.' So there I was doing pushups in the head with my face going down into the bottom of the urinal. There were three urinals. A moment later, he came back with an out of order sign for the other two urinals. So other Marines were coming in, straddle my neck and take a piss. It wouldn't be so bad, except some flushed the urinal which caused the level to rise."

My hands continue to work the balls of his feet. The smell of the cigar fills the air.

"I never really saw him, but everyone felt his wrath that one day. I was shocked that one man had such an effect on a large number of men in such a little amount of time. When I reenlisted in '79, I began to work in Marine Security. I was stationed at our embassy in Bonn in West Germany, under Gunny. On the flight over, I was terrified to meet him again. We met actually off base at the Frankfurt Airport. He came up to me and looked me in the eye. You have to realize that I am six-five three hundred pounds; I was about two sixty then. He easily was six-six or even six-seven and well over three hundred. So I had to look up to him. His first words were, ÔWeren't you the Marine who dared to carry on a conversation with me all while holding his cock in his hand?' I replied 'Yes Sergeant.' 'And didn't you beat your face in the urinal?' 'Yes Sergeant! It gave me the privilege of seeing first hand that Marines do piss pure excellence.' He laughed."

Tate lifts his foot to my mouth. I instinctually start licking his toes. I start bobbing up and down on his index toe like it is a small cock.

The cloth buffs the sword near the hilt. Without paying attention to it, he inhales deeply on the cigar. As his mouth is open, the smoke rolls off his lip and down his chin.

"I worked closely with him for the next few years. The man lived for the Marines. Every single moment he was always thinking about the Corps. He was the one who told me that many men choose the Corps as part of their lives, but not many men choose the Corps as their lives. He had chosen to dedicate his life to the Marine Corps. He gave up a personal life. He never had a girlfriend other than the women he would find in bars. Unlike your dad, he never paid for it. He always said that if the woman doesn't first want you for your cock, then you shouldn't want her.

"He said that because he had the fattest cock I had ever seen. It wasn't as long as mine, but damn he was fat. Remember the executive this morning? It was just as fat. He and I picked up these two women at a bar, but they didn't want to take us home with them. Instead we took them to our hotel room and we fucked our dates. They both were screaming from the pounding we gave them. It was my only time I ever saw his cock. From that moment on, I noticed he always seemed to walk as if his cock ruled the room it was in. Most of the time, it did.

"We were transferred to the Middle East to continue Security detail. That's a fucked up place if ever there was. Hell, it still is. We had other jarheads come work with us, but no one got the connection both of us had towards the Corps. I never found another brother like I did with Gunny.

"My second tour was winding down, I re-upped for a third tour. I was going to continue in security, but he told me that I would serve the Corps better as a DI." Tate interrupts his story and looks at me. "Lick the bottom of the feet. Clean them up like your would my ass."

I start licking up and down. They are sweaty. But, they do taste wonderfully masculine.

"He gave me advice that stuck with me throughout the remainder of my career. ÔAs he tells me that to be the most effective DI, you cannot show weakness. You need to give support, but it needs to be given in a way that the Marine is not going to find solace in that support. Always outthink the recruits, always keep them on edge, study each and every Marine file before you say word one to them, and most importantly always be unpredictable. Even in unpredictability be unpredictable.'"

"I came back to the States in August to start my third tour, and he . . ." Sgt Tate pauses as I continue to lick his feet. It is a long pause. He even pauses the sword buffing. "He remained behind. He was supposed to be back to the States in the middle of October."

"What happened to him?"

He puts the sword on the couch next to him. Sgt Tate looks at me in the eyes. They start to tear up. With his right hand he removes the stub of the cigar from his mouth. With the index finger and thumb of his left hand he rubs both eyelids. "Fucking allergies."

Putting his feet on the floor, I move up and rest my head on his left knee. He looks down and smiles. He rests his left hand on my cheek. I know this is not going to pleasant, but offering some support at this moment seems appropriate.

"The Middle East in the eighties was chaotic. President Carter fucked it up so much. Gunny was remained over there in Beirut and had been for a few months until his tour was coming to a close. On the evening of October 21, we had talked briefly on the phone once. He was staying until December. He hated it, but never told me in those words. He wouldn't have said anything like that. He told me that he would complete the tour and that January he would finally retire.

"But on the morning of October 23, 1983 at 6:20 AM a piece of shit member of Hezbollah drove a truck filled with explosives through the gate and detonated the largest non-nuclear bomb in human history in the Marine Headquarters. The explosion was so powerful that it lifted the four-story building up off its foundation and slammed it back down, effectively reducing the building to rubble. Two hundred twenty Marines, eighteen Sailors, and three Soldiers were on killed that day. Gunny was one of them.

"Piece of shit drove into the building." Sgt Tate wipes a tear from his eyes. "Our rules of engagement didn't allow for a quick response to the truck. If we were able to act like Marines, we could have stopped it.

"The sad thing was that President Reagan did nothing in response. We should have leveled that whole fucking area. We invested a lot of blood, sweat, manpower to helping the area, and then we just . . . left. We pulled out with our tails between our legs like cowards not four months later.

"I swore that I would not let the loss of those Marine lives go to waste, that I would make the meanest, baddest, most capable, and smartest Marines ever. I didn't want anyone to think that a single United States Marine is a coward." Sgt Tate's demeanor changes from sadness to resilience. "You fight us, and we will be prepared to respond with the full might and strength of the combined history of every single Marine that ever was channeled through the men who call themselves Marines. That if anyone is foolish enough to take on a member of the United States Marine Corps that they don't need to worry about retaliation, as retaliation would have already been administered swiftly, smartly, and mightily. And I did just that, as Drill Instructor, then Instructor for Security, and finally an Instructor of DI's. At every level I trained them to use their heads. I did not want them to be the mindless Marines you hear about. I wanted them to use their heads wisely despite that everyone thinks they are mindless. No matter what boys came to me, I always made them to be the best they could--the best the Marines could expect. My men were the best. No! They ARE the best. They are mighty. They are swift. They are smart. They are Marines! OOH-RAH!"

His pride swells in his presence. But it does change as his recollection changes. He stares to his right out the floor to ceiling window.

"It was a few months later when Gunny Valley's will was read, he had no family. He left everything to me, to take what I want and give the rest to charity. I did just that everything he had went to a wounded Marine Veteran's group, even his life's savings. He would have wanted those men to be cared for. You should have saw some of their faces when they found out that it was Gunny's stuff they were getting." He strokes my face. "I kept his sword and flag. It has much more meaning to me than my own."

Sgt Tate picks up the sword and stands. The sword shines. He walks over to the scabbard and sheaths the sword.

He places it on his desk and stares at it. In a somber quiet voice, Sgt Tate says mostly to himself, "This is wrong." He looks up at me. "Go upstairs and start a shower. I will be up in a second."

I leave the office without question. On my way to the master bath, I walk by the kitchen. The pizza and beef at sitting out on the table. The beef goes into the refrigerator to thaw properly, while the pizza's instruction recommends thawing at room temperature for about an hour.

Leaving the pizza out, I go upstairs and walk into the giant bathroom.

The last time I was in here I was fucked good in many different positions. I was also given a piss enema that I had to expel into that bucket.

So much is changed.

Sgt Tate takes me on a journey and my perspective on men is changed forever. Countless men use me, I am fisted, I am defecated in, and I get gang banged. I meet some extraordinary men. I never thought that a large number of men think the way I do--to find each other attractive and want to have sex with them. It is a very liberating feeling.

The biggest eye opener is Sgt Tate. He's a sadistic bastard. But, he is also a man with a sense of honor and loyalty--even some passion. He is a very complex man, much more than what Joe and I saw.

The warm water pours down my nearly hairless body. I feel stubble on my head at the same time the smoothness of my pubes has gained a small amount of stubble. I soap up my armpits and crotch--the smelly bits. The water washes the suds as quickly as I can create more.

I close my eyes and rinse off. A thousand beads of water race down my body.

A second pair of hands moves around my body. Sgt Tate presses his body to my back. I smile, but don't open my eyes. I just want to feel his body against mine. His hairy arms cross my stomach.

A microsecond of a tickle on my neck from his mustache precedes his lips kissing my neck. My head tips back and to the side allowing him access to nuzzle my neck. I can feel his warm breath from his nose. I still haven't opened my eyes, even as I feel his cock starting to get hard at my ass.

Leaning forward, his mouth moves to my jaw. I can't take it anymore; I spin to face him. Our lips connect, and his tongue asserts its dominance in my mouth.

My arms wrap around his neck. He picks me up without much effort, and my legs wrap around his waist.

We don't do anything but kiss. There is no other movement. His cock doesn't fuck me. It is nothing but the kiss. I hold on for the longest time kissing, as the water pours down us both.

This is the longest kiss we have shared. I deserve it, but I want to give him more than what he is to me. I still haven't opened my eyes.

It is only when he pulls away that I do. I see his face inches away. He smiles. "Hello boy." I relax my legs, effectively making me climb down. "Now that is a way to welcome your master."

I smile back, "Yes Sir."

"Wash me up."

I take my soapy washcloth and begin to wash the sweat away. I dwell on his ass and his cock.

"Boy, there will be time for that later. I want to be clean."

I wash him from the head down in no time.

He steps out and looks back. "Douche yourself out good. I know you did it this morning, but get in deep and good."

I start to thoroughly wash my body thinking of that kiss when he sticks his head in the bathroom. "There is a key on the vanity near the sink. Unlock and take the tube off your cock. Meet me in my office when you are done. Dry yourself good too. And don't touch yourself."

I haven't thought of my cock in a long time. Not using it became second nature. But now I'm free. I wonder if I will get to cum.

This gives me the incentive to make sure I douche out thoroughly. It takes several flushes to get crystal clear squirts.

Shutting off the water, I dry off and walk over to the key. I pick it up. The lock comes off with a pop. It is the best sound in the world. My cock is free.

It looks wrong. Creases look sculpted in place. I want to tug out the creases. Instead I decide to climb back into the shower and use the washcloths to wash it clean. As soon as I do that, it gets hard. Both the cleaning and the erection eliminate the peculiar creases.

I towel off quickly, yet effectively. The cage is left on the vanity, as I leave for the office. I stop by the pizzas, and they have more or less thawed out. I preset the oven.

I walk into the office to see Sgt Tate, but I am not prepared for what I see.

Sgt Tate is wearing his dress blues. Damn! Fuck! I am in awe. A six foot five, three hundred pound man in a uniform that makes him look twice as big.

He is staring out the window. He turns to me.

Everything is in pristine condition. It fits him impeccably, and I would expect nothing less. All his metals on his left side are lined up covering up most of his left upper torso. His white belt forms a line that is perfectly horizontal. All the metal glistens. His white gloves stretch over his massive hands. His shoes look like black glass.

"Well your cock likes what it sees."

I look down, and I am saluting him with my cock.

He walks forward to his desk.

"I couldn't disrespect Gunny that way. I couldn't be naked as I put his sword back where it belongs. It's bad enough that I presented it naked. But I need to do this with more respect."

I am motionless, not knowing how to react. What do I do?

"And now it goes back where it belongs."

He picks it up with both gloved hands; his forearms are perpendicular from his body. He turns with precision. His steps are exactly the same length. He is trying to be as respectful with each step. I don't think there is a Marine regulation on how something like this should be handled, but if there were, it would look like this.

Sarge places the sword on its pegs. Stepping back, he salutes it by slowly raising his forearm to his forehead. I really feel for Sgt Tate. I cannot believe that the man who did terrible things to me while being devoid of emotion for a whole weekend could be sharing deep personal stories with me.

I decide to support Sgt Tate and salute too, even though I have no idea how to do that properly.

Sgt Tate looks over at me as if I just crashed a bus full of five year-olds and their kittens.

"Don't you fucking dare attempt to salute one of this country's heroes with one of the absolute worst salutes a human being has ever attempted. I know you are a pansy faggot, but you can at least try to use those wrist muscles at least once in this life."

I slowly lower my hand out of embarrassment and presumptive shame.

He stomps over to me. "I know you aren't a Marine, but you are the son of one and the bitch to another. Get that hand up there." He slaps my elbow.

I put my hand up.

"You are about as fucked up as a Father's Day Picnic at the orphanage. Let's start with your posture. Your body should be erect with your chest out."

I stand tall.

"Adequate. Shoulders back. Your posture is the key. The fastest way to be called out for fucking up is a pathetic posture. Have pride in your stance."

I remember my dad trying to show me as a boy, but none of the details of what he said lasts to today. In fact the only thing I remember of him showing me to be at attention is the fact that my mom told him to stop, that I was not going into the Marines.

"You know? You need to call your doctor immediately, because you need to get arms and legs transplants. What you have is pathetic. But let's give this a try. Heels touching with the feet forming a forty-five degree angle, and don't make me get a compass out."

I move my heels together. He kicks the outside of my right foot. I move it in a little.

My feet, legs, and torso are all tense.

"Don't lock your knees, you should have the slightest of bend in them."

I bend my knees.

"Less of a bend."

I pull my knees back.

"Less. You are almost there. Pretend that your body is hanging from a string tied to your spine. Your weight is not on your heels. Stand at attention, but let your knees relax a little."

I close my eyes to concentrate on following his instructions.

"Open your fucking eyes. The instructions are not on the inside of your eyelids. Good. Your arms should be against your side. If you were wearing clothes, your thumbs would be along side of the seams."

I place my hands in place.

"Good! Now lastly, I need to get your head in place. You should be looking directly in front." Sgt Tate stands in front of me. My eyes stare at his chin. "Your eyes should have a thousand-yard stare. I don't care if there is a wall in the way, your eyes should look as if you are looking through the wall and anything less than one thousand yards away. Nothing should interrupt that stare. No matter what is happening right here in front of you, that thousand yard point is the most important spot on the planet to you."

Sgt Tate squats down so that we are eye to eye. He shows me his left index finger. He takes off his gloves without moving that finger from its place in front of my eye. After a moment, he shoves it up his nostril and digs out a booger.

I briefly laugh and break my stare.

Sgt Tate slaps me across the face.

"Fucking cunt! I was going to punch you like a man would expect, but since you are a pussy, I figured that you would only respond to a bitch slap." He looks at the booger and then wipes it on my right cheek. "Now do it again. Uh-ten-HUHHHH!"

I slap my hands on my side and heels together. My chest fills and my torso tenses. I stare off a thousand yards out.

Sgt Tate once again shows me his index finger. This time it is his right finger. And this time, he tries to dig into my left nostril. I stand motionless while he tries to get his fat finger in my nose. It doesn't fit, and he doesn't get anything out.

I don't move at all.

"Good. Now remain at attention."

He walks behind me. I hear him leave the room. Standing there looking at a wall with a booger on my cheek at his instruction should really piss me off. But it actually intrigues me.

Today has been a complete surprise to me. This past weekend, he did everything in his power to treat me like shit without a consideration for me. I didn't like him in the end. Joe was spot on with his view of Tate. But today has been the opposite. Yes he does still treat me like shit; I do have after all his booger on my cheek. But, he has opened up and let me in to his Marine life. I would never have guessed that he would have admired such a man like Gunny Valley, nor have been so affected by what happened in Lebanon decades ago.

I'm standing at attention, not because I am told to--which I know I have been--but rather to participate in this part of his world. My dad couldn't show me it as a boy, because I didn't want to be involved in that part of his life. I want to be involved in this aspect of Tate's life. This is the man I admired as a boy, in my teens, and now. This is the man I lusted after. The sexual sadist is only a shallow portion of Tate--the fraction that I don't want to be a part of.

Sgt Tate returns. I don't dare turn to look at him.

"Good boy. Chest out a little. Eyes in front."

He walks over to stand in front of me.

"It takes me days if not weeks to train my Marines to stand at attention and to salute properly. But you . . ."

Sgt Tate begins to smile at me. I see he has a sense of pride in what he is doing--the challenge of training someone who is not of the military mind into his own. The connection between us goes much farther than a recruit and his DI. I can see that he recognizes that in me.

" . . . It's going to take Millennia."

So much for that connection!

"What am I going to do with you? Let's try something different. Preeee-sent ARMS!"

I don't know what to do with this. So I just stand there.

"Goddamn! Glaciers move faster than you. Either you are deaf or stupid. I don't see hearing aids in your ears, so which is it?"

Does he want me to answer? What does he want me to answer?

"Aw, for Christ's sake!"

Storming off to his desk, Sgt Tate slams drawers.

"Why do I even bother?" He then grumbles to himself. More slamming of drawers follows more grumbling.

Sgt Tate returns to my view. I still stare out a thousand yards and don't dare look at him, but his presence is definitely felt.

He holds up a yellow sticky. That is the last thing I would expect. I don't know what to expect. I keep telling myself, just roll with it.

"So let's see if you have the brains your dad keeps saying you have. I wrote the instructions on a sticky for you." As he points to the yellow note, his tone changes. It is softer and more like a grade school teacher. "Let's see what it says. Step 1, 'The order of Present Arms is given.' Now I know that step one was done. But just to be sure, PREEEEE-sent ARMS!"

I see the note, as Sgt Tate holds it in my direct line of view. Unfortunately, it is so close that it is out of focus.

"Now on to step two. 'Turn the sticky over.' I think that one might be a difficult one for you. It requires a grasp of the third dimension. But let me help you with this one."

With two hands on the corners of the sticky, he flips it over and mouths the word "over." He returns to the front in order to repeat the process a couple of more times again.

"Good. Glad you made it past step two. On to step three! Let's see. What does this say?"

He holds it up. I can't see it, as my focus is still a thousand yards away.

"I asked you a question. What does it say?"

My focus shifts to the sticky. I can barely make out the two words.

"Answer me bitch. What does it say?"

I know he is going to go all Drill Instructor mode on me no matter what I say. I just read it out loud. "Salute Motherfucker, SIR!"

"Are you calling me a 'Motherfucker'? Do you have the audacity to call me a 'Motherfucker'? And why the fuck aren't you saluting? Get that hand up there, NOW!"

As I quickly raise my right hand to my forehead, Sgt Tate moves the sticky up as well. As my index finger is about to hit my forehead, the sticky is placed in between. My hand pushes the yellow piece of paper onto my forehead.

"Now that should help you remember. Let me see just how pathetic your salute is." He takes a step back. His tense posture changes to show his surprise. "Damn, boy, not bad." His tone does show some surprise. "Really, not bad. Dumb luck, with emphasis on the former."

I have no idea what makes what I am doing to get this reaction. None.

"ORDERRRRR HARMS!" Oh shit. A new one. What does this one mean? "I bet you wouldn't know how to pee if I didn't tell you how to do it on a sticky. 'Order Arms' means GET THE FUCK BACK INTO ATTENTION."

I scramble to remember everything, chest out, heels together, thousand yard stare, thumbs along seam.

"Pathetic. You will need practice. Don't lock your knees. Your feet need to be at a forty-five degree angle. PREEEEE-sent ARMS!"

I try to remember what I did. But since I have no clue to what I did, I am basically painting in the dark.

"What the fuck? You nearly had it last time. How could you possibly get that shitty in just ten seconds? Rigid forearm." He touches my arm, then runs his finger under my upper arm. "Upper arm needs to be perpendicular to your body. Fingers need to be tight together. Index and middle finger need to be barely touching your forehead. Again. ORDERRRRR HARMS!"

I quickly bring my arm down to my side. I leave everything else in place.

"Better. PREEEEE-sent ARMS!"

My arm goes out with my forearm rigid. My fingers tap my forehead knocking the sticky off.

"Don't you dare salute me with that thing on your cheek. Take it off."

His booger, he wants me to remove his booger. I reach up with my left hand and pick it off. I look at him for instruction.

He adds, "Growing up, I was told by the strange little boy down the street with the inbred parents that boogers taste good. You will let me know if he was right."

He wants me to eat his booger. Gross. I have had a lot worse things go into my mouth. In it goes. I quickly try to swallow it, but it gets stuck on my tongue. Saliva can't be produced fast enough.

"ORDERRRRR HARMS!"

My arm races to my side, with thumb brushing my side.

Sgt Tate stands directly in front of me only inches away. His collarbone blocks the thousand-yard stare.

"Tell me boy, what do you see in front of you?"

"Your neck, Sir."

"Do you like my neck?"

"Yes Sir." I finish swallowing.

"I want you to look at my metals and ribbons."

I look down at his chest. Being only a few inches away it makes mine look completely inferior. His is muscular; mine has no definition. Those metals and ribbons mean something important. I really feel like I haven't done much in my life.

"Eyes in front."

I feel his hands on my chest. His thumb and forefingers start to roll my nipples.

"PREEEEE-sent ARMS!"

My hand races up to my forehead. It needs to come at a different angle, as Sgt Tate is in the way.

His fingernails dig into each nipple. I wince in pain.

"DO NOT BREAK FORM! ORDERRRRR HARMS!"

My hand flies back to my side.

He smacks my face with his left hand and then the right. This is no longer fun. His hands return to their place on my nipples.

"Keep your focus. The best way to fight the pain is to put your energy into pleasing me. You will please me by maintaining your form."

I can't take this much longer. His fingernails feel like razor blades slicing off my nipples.

"HOLD YOUR FORM."

He squeezes harder. The pain is making me see everything brighter. I'm feeling lightheaded.

"STOP IT! STOP it. Stop it Sir."

His fingers let go.

"At ease."

I lose my balance. The couch is too far. I sit on one of the two chairs to regain my bearings. Sgt Tate walks up to me with bottled water.

"Don't tell anyone that I gave you this." He hands me the water. "I don't want to be known as a softy, unlike you." He points to my dick, "Your little one seems to have liked it."

I now realize that my cock is hard. I wonder if it was hard this entire time.

He looks over at the desk. His ass faces me. I lean over and kiss each cheek covered in the sky blue trousers. Raising his left arm and looking under it at me, he smiles.

"Hold on. We'll get to that in a minute. Get up, and stand here." He points to a spot beside him in front of his desk.

I take the spot next to him looking at Gunny Valley's sword.

"This time do it like I showed you. PREEEEE-sent ARMS!"

Our arms go up in unison. I hold it there with the greatest of respect. I don't want to disappoint Sgt Tate. I do want him to be proud of me based on his ten-minute training.

After a moment of silence, Sgt Tate breaks his form and turns away from the wall and me. "You know, if any Marine saw what you did, saluting while out of uniform, you would have been shot on the spot. But come to think of it, your nakedness is your uniform. Now get in there and make us some dinner."

I go into the kitchen and put dinner in the oven and set the timer. I begin to take vegetables out of the crisper to make a salad.

Sgt Tate is at his keyboard furiously tapping away on his laptop, creating the only sound except for my chopping on the block.

He shouts from the other room. "Boy I have to piss." I leave my salad, as nothing will stop me from getting to drink from him. Racing to him I drop to my knees. Even in trousers, he has a sizeable bulge. His blues really make him look huge.

"It ain't going to take itself out."

I reach for his zipper, but before I actually touch the fabric, I look up at him.

He smiles as he unbuttons the bottom buttons on his jacket, only to allow me more access underneath. A nod tells me to proceed.

Without breaking my look upwards, I pull the tab of the zipper down. Reaching in, I get to run my hand over his jockstrap-covered bulge.

I don't know if he has the wide waistband or the small, so I decide to move the pouch off to the side. With his cock and balls in my hand, it is easy to pull out.

Sgt Tate has not stopped smiling. I must be doing something right.

With his cock and balls free of the bounds of his clothing. I lean into his crotch, still looking up. My hand guides his cock head into my mouth; both hands move behind me.

I run my tongue back and forth over the piss slit. His right hand moves from his waist to the back of my head. I expect to have him shove my head down. Instead he just holds my head as he slowly pushes more and more of his soft cock into my mouth.

Only when my mouth is buried in his pants opening that our glance breaks. At this point, the piss starts to flow. I swallow it down, fast. It is a large amount that goes straight to my gut.

His piss slows down. "Ok there. You almost done preparing?" Quickly he pulls out and tucks himself back into his pants.

"Yes Sir. A few minutes left on the pizza, but the salad is done."

"Good. I have something to show you."

I go into kitchen area and take the steaming pizza out. It smells tasty.

Sgt Tate comes out, still in his blues, with his laptop in hand. "Remember the ball player from the morning, the one with the big dick?"

"Yes Sir."

"His name is Daniel Edwards. He is the vice president of communications just like he said. He has a wife, Laura, three kids. Two of them are in college, and the third is in high school. He was a catcher for a minor league team for the Tigers as he said. He also has had one DUI about twenty years ago." He spins the computer to show me the executive's picture.

"How did you find all that out?"

"He called me today. It was about when we were unloading the truck. He did not leave a message and his phone number was blocked."

"How did you know it was him?"

"Every single call made carries the caller ID information amongst other things even when blocked. I have a program that will extract that info even when it is blocked. I cross referenced his number and got his name. I checked to see that there was a catcher with that name. So I logged on to a program that provided me his background."

Damn! I am in awe and scared at the same time. He knows all these things and it was so fast and easy to get them. I wonder what he knows about me?

"Wow Sir. I'm impressed."

"What you think that only guys your age know their way around a computer?"

I cut the pizza and gave him two thick slices next to the salad. He picks up his fork and starts eating the salad first.

"You should be impressed. I want to know everything I can about someone before I get to know them." As contradictory as that sounds, I understand it completely.

"What do you know about me, Sir?"

Sgt Tate laughs. He brings his napkin up to his mouth and wipes his mouth.

"Now you don't think I will tell you everything. But I know all about you. I have known for a while. I really wasn't sure that you were going to be a sperm burper until you were thirteen or fourteen. I saw how you looked at me."

Funny, I don't remember even knowing what being gay was at fourteen.

"When I saw you at your mother's funeral, you couldn't stop looking at me with lust in your eyes. You did everything you could not to show it, but I watched how you acted around me. Your mom's house was full of mirrors, making it easy to observe the observers."

He's right. But I don't see what that has to do with anything.

"I watched you in every mirror, and your lust was on full display. I'm surprised that your dad didn't see it. I saw your fascination. I knew that as you were brought up, that I was an integral fourth person in your household. Your dad worshipped me enough to name you after me. Your mom's antagonism towards me has made sure that I had an influence on you since you were a baby.

"In that house, I saw that you idolized me, but that you didn't really realize what those feelings meant. Then the moment I came out of the lodge when you arrived, and I saw you drooling, I figured the rest of the weekend was just a formality. You were going to be on my dick in no time. I was not surprised when you threw caution to the wind, and followed me to the woods to present yourself to me to suck on my cock. I have been in your head for a long, long, long time. Oooh this salad is good! But what it needs it a little bit of . . ." He gets up and goes into the refrigerator.

I feel about three inches tall. He has known about my feelings for him. I feel embarrassed. But, why? Why would I feel embarrassed? He's right; I have been lusting after him for years. He must have been after me too, for him to notice me like he did.

He puts an anchovies on his salad and a number on mine. I cannot even fathom eating one.

"I know you cannot imagine eating one. But eat it."

I put one on my fork. After glancing at him, I just do it. Its intense saltiness assaults my tongue, resulting in me consuming a half of glass of water.

"I'm glad that you no longer fight yourself."

"Sir?"

"You have been fighting yourself and me throughout this weekend. You haven't been vocalizing it, but I sense it."

I don't know what he is talking about.

"You are probably trying to figure what I am referring to. Well, you are in an internal battle with yourself. You have the instinct of following orders, but you feel the need to resist because of the training society has inflicted on you as an individual. As the weekend progressed, your instinct took over more and more."

He looks at me. I don't know where this is going, but I feel that it isn't going to be fun. He eats some of his salad. A few bites without saying a word makes me wonder if he wants me to respond. But I don't even know how. What is he talking about?

"I am not following you Sir."

"Of course you are not. But you are trying to use your brain, which is a good thing."

He stabs one of my segregated anchovies with his fork.

"When I told you that you were going to eat my shit, I purposely chose a time of at least a day away, just so the thoughts could go continually through your mind. You kept telling yourself that you needed to find a way to tell me that you can't eat it, so your procrastination became your safety net. Every time I would remind you of your shit eating--and I made a point of telling you frequently--your thoughts, displayed on your face, were as obvious as they were in the mirror at your mother's funeral. Every time I would remind you, I could see you telling yourself that you need to find a way to tell me no. It got to the point that this thought became your solace over the actual thoughts of trying to find an exit. You never came up with a way; you just repeatedly kept telling yourself that you needed to. It happened even when I was standing on that picnic table in front of all those men, about ready to sit on your face. There was no time for delay it was about to happen, and yet you entertained the thoughts of telling me no."

I bite into the meat lover's pizza.

"Then there was Joe."

What about Joe? Was he in on this too?

"He didn't realize it, but Joe played perfectly into this. He was obviously concerned for you. So he gave you advice. He wouldn't come right out and say it--to dump me. No, he wouldn't be direct. He's the quintessential pushy bottom--pure passive aggressiveness. I hate that shit. He probably listed all my faults and all the horrible things that I had you do. Then he told you something like, 'You need to know more information about your predicament.' It's his way of saying that you need to question what you are doing. When he was leaving the motel this morning, he came into the room with me and started to ask me questions. What's the saying? 'She told more than she learned.' He was planting in your head what to do next with regards to me. It probably started with 'What do you want from life?' Then it continued with 'Do you want old man Tate part of your life?' and finished with, 'Do you want to keep doing this for the rest of your life?' And he felt perfectly comfortable, as your mentor, to tell you that you should get answers to these questions fast--to give you that sense of urgency. Am I right?"

I don't know how to respond. He pretty much nails it. Joe did all those things.

What the fuck? It's like he's inside my mind. What do I do with this knowledge? What was he doing with it? A lot seems to be planned out. Did he know what would happen? How much of this weekend was planned by him? Who all participated with him? What was authentic and what wasn't? Officer Blakely was planned. What else?

The pizza smells great, but my mind is going in too many directions to appreciate the aromas.

"How's your mind? Has it exploded yet? This tastes wonderful!"

Ignoring the culinary comment, I answer, "Sir, that is one question I can answer. Yes, it has."

"Good. And my other question?" He cuts into a cucumber from the salad. "Was I right about Joe?"

"Um" I don't know how to respond. I answer, "Yes."

He bites into the cucumber from the salad. "And what was the urgency he gave? That you are going home in a week to a father that would beat the shit out of you if he found out that you farts smell of sperm?"

"No Randy."

Sgt Tate looks at me with skepticism. Then he laughs. "Randy?"

"He said that Randy was moving in."

He puts down his fork. "Are you threatened by Randy?"

I begin to think of what to say, and instead just present the truth, "Yes."

Sgt Tate smiles. "Atta boy! Very good!"

He's actually glad that Randy threatens me.

"There you go again, telling me everything on your face. I'm not happy that Randy threatens you. I'm giving the 'Atta Boy' for not analyzing your thoughts to give me the well-tailored answer, but the truthful answer. You provided me an answer that required a split second analysis, not one to belabor over."

I eat my pizza; it is the best I have ever eaten. Too bad I can't really appreciate it, as my thoughts continually consume the ability to process any of my five senses.

"Let me say something about Randy." Sgt Tate puts down his fork and looks directly into my eyes. Whatever he is about to tell me is going to be serious. His jaw protrudes, his mouth is clamped shut, and his eyes are focused on me. He then speaks, "Randy is nothing. So put him out of your head."

"But last night . . ."

He interrupts me, " . . . was nothing. So you didn't get to sleep with me. Big deal. Get over it. He pales in comparison to you boy. You do not need to worry about him. He means no more than the world's smartest termite."

Wow, I never would have thought that he would think this low of Randy--for that matter, this highly of me. I feel proud of myself, but what am I proud about?

Sgt Tate continues, "So what about did Joe say about Randy?"

"I should watch out for Randy moving in. That I should figure out what I want, and what you want."

"And what is it that you want?"

I answer without much thought, "I really don't know, Sir."

"See this is what I am talking about. You have doubt all over the place but when presented with a profound question, you know the bounds of your doubt, giving me an answer to my question, but you still know your place by putting the 'Sir' at the end. I have noticed a couple of times you just let yourself go and accepted what I was giving you. You enjoyed yourself so much--like at the rest area. This is what I find fascinating about you, you have doubts, but you still continue, and still show your respect, all within a selfless manner. You never thought about your cock; it was about the cock of the man you service. With just about every other fuck, they would have told me to fuck off, if I hadn't told them first."

He holds up a carrot spear and chomps off the tip. With the piece still in his hands, he points at me.

"You are like a slab of stone waiting, wanting, and needing the sculptor to painfully chisel away the unnecessary bits to create a masterpiece. Remember when I told you that you have gotten farther than anyone else. It probably sounded like I was blowing smoke into your ass. You not only made it through what I did, but you craved more."

"I didn't crave anything, Sir."

"You have a funny way of telling me 'no', boy--a whole weekend without telling me that you didn't want to do anything. . . . So what do I want?"

"Sir?"

"Joe told you to find out what I want. So, what do I want?"

"I don't know, Sir."

"You have already used that answer. What do I want?"

"A slave, Sir?"

He smiles. "Well now, a slave! There is no way I would ever want a slave."

I stare at him perplexed. He gets up from the table to retrieve a pitcher of iced tea.

"I wouldn't want a slave. I can get one at any time. Hell, Randy is offering himself up as one. There are two kinds of slaves. The first are the ones that do what they are told, nothing more, nothing less. The second type of slave is the wannabes. The first type live to be beaten, pissed on, shit in, and locked up at the end of the day. They act on the instinct to follow nothing else. They hear and order; they follow it--nothing beyond that. They bore me like watching an episode of Lawrence Welk while eating slice of Velveeta on dry toast."

He pours two glasses of tea and gives me one.

"The second type is the wannabes. They want to be controlled for about five minutes and then they must control everything from that moment on. I have about five minutes of tolerance for pieces of shits like that. In case you don't realize this, boy, I like to control things, all things."

I laugh.

"Whenever I get close to anyone, male or female, but especially the bitches, they want to change me. They want me to be softer and nicer. I don't plan on changing. I'm fifty-five years old; I'm too set in my ways. And I like it that way. Again, it's about me being in ultimate control at all times. I want a boy that supports that. Wannabes will go entirely not on instinct, but through what they have been trained to think as an individual which is the result of society's influence. They want to follow by instinct, but they need to justify everything as it relates to them--basically being selfish.

"I don't want a boy that is a slave or a wannabe. I want something in balance. I want the instinct to always be there ready to act, but I also want the influence of the individual to aid in development. Some may still see this as a slave, but I do not.

"I see this in you. I saw it on day one. That is why I told you before we left for the weekend that you aren't a slave nor could you be nor would I want you to be. You are too smart for that. You follow and you have a brain. That's what I want. You are stripping away your fears and hesitation and relying on trust in me. And that is gold to me." He chews and points towards executive's picture on the laptop. "The fact that you did everything you could to help me nearly rape that man over there, confirmed that for me."

Damn! He sees everything. I cannot believe that everything is noticed--what I do or don't do. I cannot begin to fully comprehend the scope of everything he is saying to me or about me.

He is nearly done with his meal. I cannot believe I have eaten all of mine without consciously enjoying it.

"You are going to make an incredible catch for a man one day. Just don't settle for someone who is beneath you."

"Don't you want me, Sir?"

"I never thought of it boy."

"What the . . ." I don't finish what I am saying, knowing that I shouldn't swear. "Sir with all due respect, what the fuck?"

He laughs. "As long as respect is given boy! . . . I take boys and train them as men to live up to and exceed their potential and then pass them on to someone else. That's what I did for the Marines. That's what I'm doing to you. You are on your way to being the best boy, a man could want. Besides, you are Jack Stevens's boy. He left you in my care for a week and a half."

" . . . To pursue whores that you paid for."

"Yes, I wanted you here by yourself so that I can have some fun. Why? Do you want me to have you?"

My mind is going a mile a minute with this. Then I stop. And look at him.

"There you go boy!"

He positions that question so that I tell him that I want him and not the other way around.

"YOU want me as your boy, but you want me to admit that I want you first. Your face told me everything." I got him.

"You already told me that you did." He finishes consuming his slices of Pizza.

"When?"

"After I fucked you standing up in my bathroom."

I don't remember saying that. I wouldn't have said it based on what I am feeling. "We didn't say anything in the shower today."

"No you dumb git! Before we left to go to town you said it. You actually caught me off guard with that one. I told you to see if you feel the same way after eating my shit. So, do you still love me?" Fuck! I forgot about telling him that I love him. If I recall, I regretted it afterwards.

I do. But I quickly answer, "Probably."

He laughs. "That was good pizza."

"Yes Sir."

"Don't eat too much. I don't want you stuffed."

I try to imagine why. He must want me to eat his shit again. He usually shits in the evening. Oh well, I'll just get it done.

He stands and buttons up. Rubbing my shoulders as he passes by, he says, "Clean up and then meet me in our bedroom." He kisses me on the top of my head.

Our bedroom? That is a concept that startles me. Yes, I have slept with him in there, but I wouldn't consider it ours. But it does sound good as he says it.

It hits me, he is right. I have changed from disgusted resistance to blissful acceptance. Joe's advice of cynical caution is still here in the deep recesses of my mind. But all urgency is gone.

I clean up and join him in the bedroom.

He stands at full attention underneath an overhead light beside his floor to ceiling mirror. He has started a fire in the fireplace next to the floor to ceiling window.

"Crawl to me bitch." His tone is exceptionally cold.

I drop to my knees. The humiliation of crawling naked to him feels right. Sgt Tate is the master in the room, a title he has earned. I want to do what I can to make him see that I recognize that.

I am in front of him. Instinctually I bow down and kiss each reflective shoe.

"Look at yourself in the mirror."

I look to the side. I see my naked body on my elbows and knees completely naked kissing the shoes of a completely dressed Marine in his blues.

It is at this point that I give in. I will not debate myself over his motives; I trust him.

"Look up at me." I look up. "Lean back. I want to see your cock."

I do. I have no idea if I am hard or not. His training with the tube is continuing to have an effect.

"You are enjoying this I see."

I look down. I am hard and leaking a little. Strange, it doesn't feel anything.

"Go ahead and swirl your pre-cum on the head. Play with it a little."

I touch my piss slit, causing the senses within my cock to become consciously active. An orgasm can happen any moment. But, that would be a bad thing, unless Sgt Tate says otherwise.

"Look up at me."

I tilt my head upward, and his cock hanging out of his sky blue trousers and between the flaps of his lower coat. His moist piss slit is less than an inch from my bridge of my nose.

"Don't move an inch. This is what is going to happen. You are going to enjoy yourself. I want you to explore every part of the man you have lusted after all these years. You have my permission to enjoy yourself by enjoying me and my masculinity."

His cock slit develops a bead of precum. I want to lick it so bad.

"I am granting you permission to do this because of what you did for me and yourself this weekend. There are some conditions. Your tongue is the only thing that goes into my ass or mouth. You are also to undress me. There are no other limits to where you can go or what you can do. Use your senses to enjoy yourself."

Without using his hands he bounces his cock, hitting me on the nose.

"Go boy."

My mouth consumes his head. Right down to the base I go--under his coat. I try to take as much as I can down my throat. I grab his ass and push my head into his pelvis to get another inch or two. I then realize that I am grabbing his ass. Is that allowed? I hope so.

"Atta boy!" It is ok.

I pull off, and then impale myself again. I long dick him. Out in my periphery, in the mirror, I see a naked boy, giving head to a fully clothed six foot five, three hundred pound Marine in his dress blues.

"You like what you see boy? Because I do."

I pull off and look at him. I stroke his dick with both hands. "Yes Sir. It is fucking hot, Sir."

I flick my tongue across his piss slit while playing with his shaft in one hand and his balls in the other.

He stands at attention with me playing with his cock. I love every second of this. I can taste his precum as it pours out of his cock.

He wants me to undress him. I begin by removing his white belt with the brass buckle, all the while sucking on his cockhead. I place the belt on the floor.

There are six brass buttons with the eagle and anchor on each one. I reach up and undo each one. After fumbling with the first one, the remaining five is a lot easier. His coat now is open to reveal a white t-shirt underneath.

I reach up with both hands. Each hand follows the red chord on the edge of the coat. I feel his massive torso hiding under the coat.

Parting his jacket, my hands roam over his chest. His perky nipples under the shirt act as speed bumps for my hands. I roll his nipples in my fingers, like I did when he was in the sling.

I stand. Both of our cocks stand out proud. Walking around I remove his jacket with minimal assistance from Sgt Tate.

He points to the bed where velvet hangers sit. I put the jacket on the jacket hanger and hang it in the closet.

I can't decide where to go next? Should I remove his t-shirt or his socks and shoes? I feel like a kid in a candy store. This is definitely a treat.

Walking around him a couple of times like a hunter ready to pounce on his prey, I cannot resist returning to his massive cock. I suck some more while pulling his white shirt out of his trousers.

So I am going to expose his chest. But at the last minute, I change my mind and reach down to his shoes. I grab his left shoe. "Lift out of it Sir." His foot comes out with ease. I pull down and off his black sock. I repeat the process with his right shoe and sock.

I hold each shoe to my nose and inhale deeply. Instead of smelling his shoes I would rather have his feet. I start licking his exposed feet on the top. His hairy toe knuckles taste so much better than when I licked them earlier.

I lay on my back with my head between his feet. I enjoyed licking his feet earlier.

"Sir, please place your foot on my face."

With precision, he places his left foot directly in the center of my face with a small amount of pressure. I lick all over the bottom of his foot. I taste the smell that I first encountered in his shoes.

"Other foot Sir."

Again with military precision, he switches feet. I give him an identical footbath.

"OK Sir." His foot returns to its pre-tongue bath position.

I jump up and look at him. He is barely smiling. His eyes still are focusing in his own thousand-yard stare.

I pull up his t-shirt to expose his nips underneath. My mouth goes to his right nipple. I start sucking. It feels wonderful to have his nipple rolling around in my mouth. I move to the other one, as my hands lift his t-shirt off. Sgt Tate has to bend over to help me pull it off.

He returns to being at attention, thumbs touching the red seem along the outside of his trousers.

I cannot stop running my hands over his torso, front and back. I am still amazed that I am able to enjoy the man like this--the same one who I have jerked off to for so many years.

I unbutton his trousers and pull them down.

I see the man standing at attention in his jock strap with his trousers around his ankles. His cock hangs out of the side of the pouch. I am about to pull it down too when I notice that his hairy ass is perfectly framed by the straps. I get behind him and look at his ass crack. It smells clean, but with some muskiness. I bury my face in it.

From his posture, I cannot get in there. "Bend over, Sir." He bends over, making his crack reveal his puckered hole. I wonder if I can push the limits here. "Pull your cheeks apart, Sir." His hands pull apart his ass. I cannot believe that I got this total alpha male in such a submissive pose.

This is the first time I get to see his asshole up close out of the context of eating it. I run my finger over the folds of his asshole. This is such a beautiful thing. I can't take it anymore; my tongue dives in.

I lick and slurp and spit all over it. While rimming, I run my hands up and down his legs. I feel his trousers around his ankles. It reminds me of the picnic table at the sex club.

I pull away in order to lie on my back. Resting my head on his trousers, Sgt Tate recognizes the position. "Squat Sir."

His asshole lands on my tongue, just like it did at the sex club. I start tongue fucking him for a minute or so.

"Atta boy!"

My tongue goes in deep. The tip encounters something firm. Oh no.

"Boy, all you have to say is yes, and you will have it."

'Yes' is the last word I am going to say. "Up Sir." I can taste his shit on my tongue.

Sgt Tate stands, and I get upright as well. I walk around to his front.

Grabbing his head, I pull him down. We kiss. My tongue invades his mouth, only to encounter his tongue running all over mine.

He stops and pulls back. "You son of a bitch." He must have tasted his shit on my tongue. Sgt Tate laughs. "You mother fucking son of a bitch."

I am worried now. "I'm sorry, Sir."

"Why? You managed to catch this old dog with his pants down, literally and figuratively. Boy it is a rare accomplishment to do what you have done. Be proud of outsmarting your old master. Now help me out of my trousers."

He steps out of them. I fold them in half. The jock comes off too. He is once again naked.

"Make sure that the blood stripe lines up from the fold." I make the adjustment to the trousers so that the top of the red stripe hangs directly next to the bottom. "That stripe is one of the most important parts of the dress blues. It serves to honor the memory of fallen Marines." I look at the stripe again, and feel compelled to make sure that once I hang it, that the stripes still line up.

I get down on my knees in front of him and start sucking. My head bobs up and down. I want to suck the cum out of him.

His right hand is on the back of my head. As he stops my head at the tip, Tate instructs, "Look at me."

I look up at him with his cock in my mouth.

He spits on me. It lands directly on his cock, with some landing on my forehead. "That's my way of kissing you back."

Applying pressure to the back of my head makes me take more of his cock in my mouth and throat.

"Boy, your free time exploring my body is now over. Your hands are to remain behind your back."

He starts applying a lot of pressure. His cock is buried in my throat. It is hard to breathe. In fact it is damn near impossible to breathe. Actually, I cannot breathe. His hand still holds my head in place.

"Don't you fucking bite me!"

What do I do? I can't breathe. I can't put my hands on him. How do I signal that I need air?

I jerk back, but he still holds me in place. I look up at him. Tears form in my eyes.

A white haze becomes everything, and everything comes from a white haze.

It is a peaceful feeling. I feel his hard chest on the side of my face. Something is different.

I lift my head up. Gravity is confusing me. I realize that I am no longer kneeling; my body is horizontal.

I am nestled on top of Sgt Tate's body. We are in his room, but it is darker now. I look around; we are in bed.

"Well hello there." Sgt Tate wraps his arms around me.

What just happened? I was struggling for air and then wind up in bed with him. I look at him with a blissful confusion look.

"Sir?"

"Yes boy? You passed out for a minute. I took the opportunity to take you to bed."

I start to climb off of him.

"No. No. No. Stay there a while."

My body completely lies on top of Tate. I feel his hairy muscular chest under my head. His breathing provides some movement under me. His heartbeat is soothing to my ear. He slowly strokes my back. I feel safe here. He is a prick, but he always safely holds me afterwards.

I lay here for what seems like hours, but in reality it must be a few minutes. I am enjoying his caress. My hand moves up. I find the chain to his dog tags.

I pick up my head, but still keep my chin resting in the sea of hair. "Sir, thank you."

"For what?"

I change my mind, "Oh, nothing." Changing it again, I then look into his eyes and whisper, "I love you, Sir."

He laughs. Then, he picks up his head to kiss me on the forehead. "I know." I am both enraptured and incensed by that his response. He acknowledges my affection, which makes me feel good, but then doesn't return the same feeling.

I wonder, has he ever said that he loved anyone.

"Besides, you didn't ask to eat my shit when you were under me."

Fuck. Why did he have to ruin my moment like this? I cannot believe that he dismisses me with the "I know" and then follows it up with this shit comment. I don't think he will ever be able to vocalize his emotions. My teeth grind out of frustration.

His cock stirs under me. "I need to get off boy. Sit on my cock."

I climb up. My legs are stretched wide around his torso. I can feel his cock on my crack.

I reach behind me to grab a hold of it. I know he is probably precumming, so a couple of swipes on my hole with his head give me some lubrication.

He places his hands on my hips. We act in unison as I impale myself on his cock.

With me trying to adjust, he puts his hands behind his head and watches me. He exposes his very sexy armpits.

"Squeeze your cunt muscles. Strangle my cock." I clench my asshole down. "Now relax it." I relax. "Do that repeatedly." I squeeze and relax. I squeeze and relax. "That is something you should do every day at least a hundred times whether or not there is a cock in that cunt."

"Feels good to have you in me Sir."

"How nice for you. Ride!"

I start to bounce up and down on his cock. "Not like that." He makes an 'O' with his hands in front of my cock. "Try to fuck my hands with your cock." I thrust forward, but my cock doesn't reach his 'O'. "Again." I trust forward again missing his hands. "Again." I repeat the process. But this time he returns his hands to behind his head. I continue the process as if his hands were still there. "That's it."

He closes his eyes for a little while as I ride his cock this way. I just focus on his cock in my hole. I squeeze and relax. I ride forward and back. Riding a cock like this is a lot of work. But I know he is enjoying it, which is giving me the motivation to do better and to last a long time.

I feel his fingers on my dick head. I look at him scooping up some pre-cum on his finger. He presents it to me. I open my mouth and gladly suck on his finger as if it is a small cock.

When he pulls his finger out, he uses his hand on the back of my neck to pull me down to him. He kisses me. I can no longer ride his cock the way he wants me to.

But, he takes over the fucking. I can feel his upward thrusts taking over for my lack of riding.

His left hand holds my head, while his right digs into my left nipple.

Our kiss is interrupted with, "I'm going to blow."

He kisses deeply and twists my nipple with the same level he used on me when he was trying to teach me to salute.

His body convulses. It is hard to remain on top of him as he shoots a huge load up my ass.

He never breaks the kiss--not during the orgasm, nor the time of his body relaxing, nor his cock flopping out of my hole. With his cock out of my hole, he will want me to clean it up. I begin to pull downwards.

"Stay where you are. You can clean me up later. Lay with me, boy."

I lay on top of him, but he rolls to his side still holding me in front of him. He pulls the covers over both of us.

I am lost in his arms and chest. I feel so safe here. I need to be here. Joe should have seen this side of him. Joe is wrong.

I begin to drift off to sleep; I don't realize just how tired I am.

The day started out with me being woken up next to Joe by Sgt Tate's shouts. Now the day winds down softly in Sgt Tate's arms. I am ready to go to sleep.

One final look at Sgt Tate silhouetted by the dying fire in the fireplace I see a wonderful man who holds me safely in his arms. His body hair is illuminated, as he is about to drift off too.

I close my eyes and start to drift away.

He whispers "I love you too boy."

Now, I am wide-awake.