Did I seriously see that guy over there, between his chest press sets, ogling me? That very straight-looking jock type? SERIOUSLY?

I forced my concentration back to my pull-ups, taking a tiptoe step to grab the bar, getting it. I hit them slow and easy, all my concentration making sure every muscle in my arms, shoulders, lats and chest did its work the right way. Slow up and slow down. First, hammer grip - 20 reps. Then another 20 pronated military grip reps. And finally 20 chin-ups. I slacked my body and dropped the half-inch to the floor on my toes then down, probably slumping more than I wished I would, having really pushed myself. I reflexively pulled my sweaty t-shirt up and wiped my face, which was hot, and I knew was red from the exertion.

When I cleared my eyes with the shirt, DAMMIT - there he was again, watching me, this time with the tip of his tongue visible, moving slowly across his upper lip. He was fucking leering at me!

WHAT THE FUCK? I always concentrated only on my exercises while I was doing the reps - so had he been just sitting there on the chest press the entire time, watching me? OGLING me? I sure as hell didn't mind showing off - to a straight guy or gay guy made no difference - but I usually knew who'd admire, who'd ogle and who'd just be curious, as I worked my way through the excruciating routine that was second nature to a marine like me.

But this guy was not stealing glances, was making eye contact, was just . . . hungering for me.

And now he was doing his next set. I noticed for the first time how thick and corded and wide and developed his arms and shoulders were, how his t-shirt, made to fit well, hugged every curve and bump of his muscled torso. The tribal tatts on his left and right biceps, half-visible under the strained edge of his t-shirt sleeve, were not too wide, were interesting and were different left to right - together they pulled eyes to his bulging, vascular 'ceps like a tractor beam. He had a very respectable set of plates on the machine's inward-angled bars. Was that right - 180 on each side? Couldn't fucking be . . . and now I was staring across the vast workout area as he worked them slow and deliberately, just the way I did my reps, breathing perfectly controlled, arms, shoulders, chest all rippling as his muscles worked the massive weight.

I also noticed for the first time that he had his feet planted wide apart on the floor, and his PT shorts gave me a great view of what looked like a well-worn jock strap, well packed pouch visible beyond his darkly-furred, muscle-bound quads.

WHAT THE FUCK? SERIOUSLY? I didn't cruise corpsmen, not there, not in the gym we all used on-base, the one where family could go too, not with everyone around. Not that I didn't respond to the occasional interest; but I didn't stare and ogle. I didn't CRUISE.

As he showed the strain of his fifteenth rep and brought the bars back and dropped his arms, shaking them some, shaking it off, his gaze met mine. A smile, just a bit of one. No - a smirk.

I went to my next sets, easily pushing the thoughts of him, of this whole stupid dance we were doing, out of my mind, stupidly powering through 30 reps each. By the time I was doing my chin-ups, my entire upper body was protesting, and I struggled through 20, wondering if I'd make it to 30 of those.

"Need a spot?"

The deep voice and strong male scent invaded my concentration but didn't shake it, and I looked to see him there, standing by me suddenly. "I'm good," I croaked, and struggled through 23 . . . 24 . . . a very agonizing 25.

"Awesome - gimme more, man. DO IT!" he encouraged, having moved in closer, behind me.

When I got to 28, really grunting and struggling, I felt his hands, lightly on my waist. He wasn't holding or pushing, just there. "COME ON, marine - you've got more!" he called loudly, louder than I'd like in the crowded gym, or maybe it was the blood thumping through my over-taxed system that made it sound so loud.

"AAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!" I groaned through the 29th, but I maintained my control and speed and didn't flop down.

"That's it. Got another? NOW!" he coached from behind me.

And I did . . . it almost killed me - or felt like it - but I did it. And to emphasize it, I didn't let myself go slack at the end of it, just held there, sweating and straining.

"Going for more?" he asked with a clear note of bemusement in his question.

I let myself down, careful not to slump into the pile of mush I really wanted to, holding my posture, a couple inches taller than he. "Nah - just savoring the burn," I smirked.

He met my gaze, chin up slightly to match it from his height. "So what was that - like three-sixty or some crazy number?" he asked.

I couldn't help but grin, satisfied with myself. "Those last made four-fifty - an even one-fifty of each. Usually it's one-twenty each, but today I felt . . . motivated." I maintained my grin . . . and held his gaze.

He put his hand out, barely brushing my sweaty t-shirt . . . and my nipple with his middle finger, not accidentally. "Bronson," he grinned.

"James," I answered, not stepping back to grip his hand, instead swaying enough so that his finger tweaked my hardening nipple. "Lieutenant Colonel," I added, knowing he was likely enlisted, not an officer, and if this was going anywhere I might as well assert my dominance right then and there.

As he reacted to my rank and started to backpedal, I stepped in and grabbed his big hand and pumped it, surprising him. His grip firmed instantly, matching mine, and he then held his ground, still eye to eye with me.

"Good to meet you, sir," he said, now all business. He was back to meeting my gaze, but the smirk, grin and any other inviting mien was gone. "Drill Sergeant Bronson."

Of course I could tell an enlisted man from an officer any day. Sad to say, more often than not, that was a positive thing for the enlisted guy - too many officers full of their rank for my taste. And here I'd just pulled rank, made the vast chasm between us obvious, just like those assholes I detested.

I maintained my grip on his hand and squeezed it when he went to end our handshake first, causing his eyes to widen. "My friends call me Bill."

Just a very tiny curl began at the edge of his lips. "Most of my friends call me-"

I interrupted him. "Let me guess. Sarge? Or would it be Bron?" He grinned at me now, defiant though I knew I was right. "Or maybe even Son, depending on the circumstance?" I added, lower, suggestive.

That hit home, and his eyes narrowed and rolled a little, a breath catching. "That last one would be for a different type of . . . friends," he answered, quieter. "Like Driller."

Laughing suddenly, I let go of his hand with a pushback at the same time and clamped my hand on his shoulder. "Thanks for the spot, Driller. The encouragement pushed me and helped me to make good on my attempt to up my reps and sets - I almost needed that."

He just looked at me, his well-muscled arms crossed across the bottom of exceptionally well-developed pecs. "Almost, huh?"

"Yeah, almost." I didn't give anything on that one, but I did smile. "You need a spot there to finish yours? Otherwise, I'm hitting the treadmill for a run before I hit the showers."

"I'm good, thanks - finished the presses, finished the lifting portion of today's workout and gonna hit the treadmill and then the showers myself."

We just stood there for a moment. I was trying to parse something out of his answer, but it was back to business, like after I pulled rank. Snapping out of it, I put my hand out. "Good to meet you, Bronson." I deliberately didn't use one of the "friends'" names.

Bronson looked a little startled, but he took my hand. "Thanks, sir. Good to meet you, too, colonel."

He hadn't corrected me, and I didn't correct him. I grabbed my water bottle and turned my back on him and headed to the treadmills.

Bronson didn't take a treadmill anywhere near me. He didn't even look my way, just got to his running, as I did. I did work my peripheral vision, making sure my pace was building faster than his, though. And I can't say I didn't want to turn completely around so I could fully enjoy the sight of his lean-muscled quads and calves in addition to his well-muscled arms and v-shaped torso moving as he ran.

I'd planned to do thirty, but it went on and on, him running faster, increasing the incline, me following and pushing faster and even higher on the incline, him following . . . until at sixty minutes I was ready to call it.  I'd gotten going a half-minute before him, and I was hovering - mentally - over the stop button to start a cool-down, really not wanting to, but I needed water, oxygen and calories - that's how hard we ran.

Or maybe I was imagining that we were vying with each other, matching and bettering each other. All I knew was I was fucking POOPED! I felt fucking GOOD, though - the burn was intense, I just needed some hydration and food.

Just as I was about to punch the cool-down button, I caught Bronson punching his. OH THANK CHRIST! I gave it another minute, just to save face, and of course that minute seemed like the longest minute of my life, like I might not last through it, might just collapse before the machine took me through a cool-down. But he had stopped his, was slumped over the controls, not doing a cool-down session.

As I slowed to a jog at half-speed, I saw him wipe down his machine and then saw him heading my direction. Of course I just looked ahead, concentrating on lowering my heartbeat and controlling my breathing.

"OK, sir; this D-S is no match for you, obviously," he panted, having come to the front of the treadmill and addressing me head-on.

"Oh, were we competing, DRILLER?" I taunted him, which was difficult, since I could hardly speak!

He leaned in closer. There was nobody on either side of me, probably because my sweat had been flying in both directions when I was at full run, and nobody was into that . . . at least right then. "I'm saying . . . SIR . . . that you can be the drillER since you bested me."

Well, that put a fine point on it!  My dick obviously was interested, which was not a great thing right about then, out there on the gym floor. And how couldn't it . . . and I . . . be interested. Completely soaked with sweat, his shirt looking glued to his perfectly-muscled torso, his grin inviting, and his sweat wafting up to me like home cooking after being out on a mission for a month. "We should probably discuss this somewhere else," I told him, quietly, like he'd done.

That put a bigger grin on his face. "I can work with that, sir!"

"Um, if we're going to go THERE, you can lose the 'sir', marine," I told him.

I looked down to the controls, knowing I had about a minute and a half. I confirmed that . . . and I also saw him somewhat awkwardly trying to adjust his own hardon in his trunks so it was at a perfect head-up attitude, which was apparently beyond the confines of his waistband.

Stumbling momentarily, I caught myself and continued my now-walking gait. When I looked up again, Bronson's grin was pure evil. "Just stop it," I told him with my own smile.

"Sir, if that's an order, I might just be in trouble, because it's pretty clear I have NO control over what's going on down there - that's all you!"

OH MY GOD this one was going to be trouble!

My time ended, and I pulled up my shirt to try and sop the sweat off my face. My shirt was just as wet, though, so it was not doing much. "Not a bad view there," Bronson appraised. "But it's not helping me comply with your order."

I just threw him a look and put down my sopping shirt, again covering my hairy abs. And damned if that devil didn't strip his shirt over his head and hand it to me. "Might be a less damp spot somewhere," he offered. The full-color EGA tat on his perfectly stony-flat right pec looked like the artist loved the Corps as much as I did.

Now my own cock was a problem. A BIG problem. I managed to get myself off the treadmill, at the same time adjusting myself to that same head-up attitude, making sure my shirt was pulled away and not silhouetting the top few inches of me above the waistband, letting Bronson's shirt dangle as I actually used it to wipe my face. AND to inhale his clean musky sweat scent.

I didn't break stride and headed along the butt-end of the treadmill row toward the lockers, Bronson keeping pace in the next row. I did sneak a glance at his not-hidden-at-all boner, now necessarily at a forty-five degree angle across his shorts front to keep his head and the end of his shaft contained. But he walked purposefully and didn't call any more attention to it by trying to cover, and I followed suit, just running his musky shirt over my face a few times and then letting it fall. 

When we hit the end of the row I tossed his shirt back to him. "Thanks. Very much," I added in a husky voice. He just grinned.

When we got through the door to the lockers, we were alone, though there were guys in the showers around the corner - we could hear a couple talking loud, over the spray. He quickly, almost furtively, said, "I live off-base, not far, in Evere. Alone."

"Sounds like a plan. Shower then go? You don't have to report after?" I suspected he, like me, was off-duty, given the early evening time, but I wasn't sure.

Looking around to make sure we were still alone, taking a step in closer, inhaling, "If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to just go . . . like this," he finished, with another blatent whiff. "And no, I don't have to report until morning."

Just then two gyrenes from the shower area rounded, their EGA tats not nearly as well-inked as Bronson's I noticed, one snapping the other with his towel, both laughing. I straighted and told Bronson, "We'd better get going then, marine. We'll have to catch a shower afterward," as if we had some business and had run out of time. I saw him stifle a guffaw, his back to them. His loss - two hot men, naked, cavorting!

We walked the ten or twelve blocks through northeast Brussels pretty much in silence - just two marines, content to satisfy the objective without filling time with chatter. When we got to an older apartment block and he was leading our way up four flights, two at a time, I reveled in the thoroughly male scent of his sweat as I passed through its wake and I admired the perfection of his ass. Two perfect globes, bouncing . . . soon to be stuffed full of cock. My cock throbbed in my sweaty PT shorts, about three-quarters hard again, confined by my jock strap. "Hope we don't have much farther to go; the view from back here is about to push me beyond my self-control," I called up to him.

In answer he stopped abruptly, causing me to close the gap before I could react. My face was essentially at his sweaty neck, and his assglobes were against my chest. After a beat, he said, "Just testing your resolve, colonel." Then he laughed and took the rest of the way at a faster pace.

I was right behind him and followed him along a landing, pretty much crushing him into his door when he stopped. Bronson growled and pushed those perfect buttcheeks back into me, perfectly on target to trap my raging-again cock, and wiggled - what we'd now call a twerk - against me. "Mmmmmmmmmmmmm."
 
"Open that fuckn door, marine!" I growled back at him. I ground into him to emphasize the urgency.

Keying the third of the locks, the door finally opened, after what seemed like an eternity. We weren't inside more than a foot beyond the swing of the door when Bronson turned and fell to his knees, hands in the waist of my shorts. I quickly reached down and clamped my hand on his right wrist as I chucked my gym duffel to the floor with my other. "Get your clothes off." He looked up at me, and it looked to me like he was calculating or considering. "NOW, MARINE!" I barked. Clearly I needed to assert my position as top to this usually-top stud.

Bronson's face broke into a smirk. As he was getting to his feet, he let his free hand brush the length of me through my shorts, evoking a moan from me, despite my attempt to suppress it. He smirked more as he slowly, like a stripper, pulled the hoodie he'd put on in the gym locker room over his head.

Oh, man, was he a sight. I'd enjoyed his v-shaped torso, full of muscles and cords, rippling and rolling when he gave me his shirt in the gym and until he'd pulled on the hoodie. He was tall and built and furry - three out of four . . . and we'd see about the fourth soon enough. Bronson pushed down his shorts and jock strap in one movement, giving me my first look at his Adonis belt, thick cock and heavy-hanging, hairy nuts. Perfection.

"Turn around," I told him.

Bronson surprised me by doing a moonwalk step back and then a graceful twirl on his sneakers until his furry bubble butt was facing me. A whimper slipped out as I beheld the perfection of the ass I was about to destroy.

"Guess that means you like." He was moving his ass slowly, grinding around.

"Get the fuck back on your knees!" I growled, low and as controlled as I could manage.

The fucker did as he was ordered. Right there, in position, facing away from me. I couldn't help but chuckle, despite the objections my cock was asserting.

"You said . . . " he called back to me.

"You'll remember that when you can't walk tomorrow!" I retorted.

"OOOH RAH!" he growled.

I stepped around him and was in front of him, and he reached out and pulled down my shorts and jock strap until my horsecock popped out and smacked him square on the nose. A splatter of my precum landed across his cheek. "Mmmmmm," I moaned, and then I moaned louder when he took my drooling cockhead into his mouth.

Bronson's mouth was hot and wet, and his tongue was like a swirling pleasure conductor. His licks and swipes circled and teased my piss slit, seeking every drop of me I could produce as flow. I had one hand on his head and one on his shoulder, stabilize my stance because he already had my knees weak.

When he took my sweaty balls in a firm grip, I involuntarily thrusted my cock deep into his mouth, hitting the opening of his throat. "MMMMMMMMMMRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPHHHHH!" he grunted. That grunt opened his throat enough for me to shove my baseball-sized cockhead and several inches of my shaft behind it down his throat. "GGGGGRRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMPPPPPP!"

I held him steady that way for a moment, anticipating a struggle. Instead his tongue left his very full mouth and licked my sac. Awwwww FUCK he was a hot bitch! Continuing to hold him I pulled out of his throat but not out of his mouth, enjoying the pop as my head came free of the tight opening.

Bronson suckled and worked my cock and several inches of my shaft between my thrusts into his throat, now opened enough for me to fuck it without ripping into him. His grip on my nuts was tight and firm, massaging and pulling and twisting.

It had been a couple of days since I'd cum, about a week since I'd fucked. My cock and nuts were ready, just that short blowjob had me near blasting. "When I cum, don't swallow everything - save some to lube your cunt for my second load!" I ordered him, spiraling upward toward the first.

Bronson just GRRRRR'D and practically yanked my nuts off and swallowed my throbbing cock - he was clearly motivated. And it wasn't a minute or two more before I felt the explosion radiating out from my nuts, through my legs, torso, out my arms and feeling like it was blasting my scalp off as my body went rigid. I had my cock buried in the cocksucker's throat, both hands clamped TIGHT on his head, as it finally ripped out of me, leaving my body heaving and spasming and writhing as I felt my first blast rocket through the length of me and out into his gullet . . . followed by another . . . and so many more I lost awareness.

At some point he pulled back so he was sucking my head in his mouth, that tongue teasing every drop out of my nuts, some of it dribbling out the corners of his mouth as I looked down again at him finally. He was sucking HARD and with great pleasure, his eyes clenched shut in concentration. Then I realized, it wasn't concentration, it was an effort at restraint . . . which Bronson lost suddenly as his body writhed, and I felt his seed spraying my legs. FUCK! That could have made me cum right there - fuckn HOT!

While he came, his clench on my tanks was like a vise. I didn't mind it one fucking bit - I fucking fed off the pain and pleasure of it as he dumped his load and held my cock in his mouth among a god portion of load. Good boy - he'd saved some.

I was rubbing his head appreciatively in my big hands without realizing it as he gave a few more bucks and spasms and finally pulled his head back, mouth up, completely loosing my still-hard, cum-and-spit-soaked cock to drip on him and the floor. He was groaning indulgently, and then he gargled my cum in his mouth!

It was unusual . . . and hot . . . watching him enjoy my cum and come down from his own no-handed blast. It was even hotter watching him turn his head forward again and let about half a cupful of my cum flow out into his cupped hand. Then, bring his eyes up to meet mine, he carefully reached behindself, not spilling any from his cupped hand, then pushing out his ass, his cheek against my thigh as he did his best to show me as he lubed himself . . . slowly.

When he was done, Bronson reached up and slicked my cock all up and down with what was left in his hand. "How do you want my ass?" he asked, twisting his hand tightly up and down the length of me.

My body was reacting to his stroking, and every time his hand twisted over the flange and onto my still-over-sensitive head by body jerked with desire. That's when I realized, watching him, that he was rubbing his head in my hands as I rubbed his close-cropped head. "How do you like to fuck when it's you doing the fucking?" I answered with my own question, holding his gaze.

He stopped all movement except for gripping my cock and nuts, his face going to a reluctant smile. "I can't lie to a brother. I fuck like a marine!"

"Exactly. I don't give a fuck how you give me that ass, but just know that I'm going to FUCK it!" I told him matter-of-factly.

He smirked. "Guess there's no point in telling you it's been a long-ass time since I took a cock, much less a horsecock like this piece of prime beef here!"

I smirked back at him. "What would you say to a recruit you were training, drill sergeant, if he or she asked for mercy?"

He held it a beat, making me wait, challenging me. Then, with some difficulty, and using my hardon as a grip, he got to his feet and faced me eye to eye, his nose almost meeting mine. "We gonna fuck or we gonna talk?" he challenged in a mock snarl.

Bronson couldn't hold it, though, and he broke into a guffaw. "C'mon, ya big fucker - FUCK me already before all that lube you shot in my mouth runs out my ass!" he said, pulling me farther into his small apartment, toward his bedroom.

In his bedroom he was up on his bed, on all fours, his lower legs and feet hanging off with his knees wide enough for me to stand between them. His perfectly globular and well-furred ass was as inviting as anything I could think of, and my cock was ready.

I was right in there, my cock pressed against his slicked pucker, one hand resting appreciatively on the landing patch of thick, dark, soft fur on his lower back just above his ass. "Last chance, marine - go or no go?" In answer, Bronson growled LOUD and PUSHED BACK against my cock.

Having my answer, I pushed forward then SHOVED, my humongous hardon feeling the strain like it would bow and break against the unwelcoming, clenched cuntpucker on him. "You're fucking HUGE!" he cried. "You must know how to use that thing like a battering ram," he added, pushing harder back onto me, moving his hips to wriggle against my slimy cockhead, smearing more of my pre on that opening.

That ignited my fuse, and taking his hips in my hand, I SHOVED HARD into him, breaching him with a loud wail from him, followed by loud, panting breaths. BUT . . . he was still pushing back, his vise-tight fuckchannel swallowing and ingesting my fuckpole inch by inch.

"AAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" he cried when I had to adjust stance enough to push past his p-spot, impeding my ingress.

"Yeah, take that cock. You know you fucking want it. TELL ME!" I barked down at him.

Bronson turned his head back toward me, his face red as a beet, his eyes squinting from the painful grimace. "I. CAN. TAKE. IT!" he spat out. "SO . . . FUCK ME!" he grunted, seating himself all in with his hairy buns slammed into my groin and hips.

I pulled back, to a loud gasp from him. His cuntchute was so fucking tight my cock felt strangled, like a full-cock cockring, and the pressure was so intense as my widely flanged head reamed backward I had to hold him steady to get enough leverage to deplunge through him. Then I SHOVED hard and SLAMMED my groin back into him, my big low-hangers smacking his, his buttflesh and my groin slapping loud.

I was so overwhelmed with the sensation that I couldn't help but cry to the heavens, "OH GOD YESSSSSSS!" as I built up my pace. Like a handjob by a strong male hand working my cock with the tightest grip and just enough lube to make movement possible but far from easy, my veiny fuckshaft and broad cockhead reamed in and out of him in lengthening strokes, working my way to long-dicking that bitchhole.

"OH JESUS FUCCCCKKKKKKK that's so fucking-"

His breaking off was into a gasp as I finally pulled out far enough to stretch his cunthole to the full dilation he'd endured when my baseball-sized head first popped in. Then his body jolted mightily when I hit his p-spot head on with the re-thrust, slamming into it and passing on until my body slammed savagely into his tailbone when I bottomed out. "Yeah, that IS fucking!"

The next few slam-strokes he picked up his own counter-moves, meeting me thrust for thrust, growling, groaning and moaning through it in a continuous stream of body-stress-induced sounds that frankly had my swinging, slamming nuts boiling again. "Fuckn A, marine - THIS is the way MARINES fuck!"

"SIR, YES SIR!" he shouted through tensed breathing.

"OOOOH RAH!" I shouted in return, slamming him harder.

"OH JESUS FUCK! IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?" he threw back, despite my punishing slams into him.

I planted my hands I knew painfully around his hipbones and really slam-fucked him HARDER and FASTER, savaging his prostate with every direct thrust then SLAMMING into him and bottoming out only to pull back until his cuntpucker was gaping again, stretched unimaginably around my thicker, more determined cockhead. I was slamming that bitch so hard my own bones - not just my thruster - were jolting painfully with every thust, and my balls were aching so painfully from smacking his I almost didn't notice that both of ours were pulling up, closer to blasting our nut again.

Bronson's cunt became a massage sleeve and started working my fuckstick like a milking machine as he gyrated around my thrusts and accelerated my ascension toward another release. My fucking tanks were screaming for release, as if it hadn't just been less than an hour before that I'd drained down his gullet. And his were pulled up just as mine were, and his frenetic thrusts back into me and cuntmuscles milking me told me he was just as needy.

I had a moment where I realized it was then or never, if I wanted to slow us down, edge us, edge him but also me. I could have slowed, changed angle, brought it all back a notch from that close to the edge. But my aching nuts and marauding cock were having none of that, and just as the thought passed through my consciousness, he yelled, "AWWFFUCCKKKKKK YESSSSS! FUCK it out of me NOOWWWWW!" and really slammed back into me, impossibly harder than he already had been, clenching my fuckrod in his amazingly controlled fuckchannel even harder.

Any thought of holding back was gone. Instead my hips made a tiny adjustment, and I started jackhammering directly into his p-spot to a stream of shouts from him with every contact. "OH FUCK!" "OH FUCK!" "OHFUCK!" "OHHFFUUCCKK!" "OHHHHHHHFFUUUCCKKKKKKKKKK!" Until he suddenly went silent and stopped moving, his entire body seizing HARD, his back suddenly arching, his head up, mouth gaping in a silent cry.

My cock was almost immobile in the strength of his seized cuntchannel . . . and then, suddenly, all those muscles started to spasm around my cock like his cunt was exploding. His body was doing the same, bucking and writhing. His upward silent scream became a long howl. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" And then I could feel his every nutburst being expelled from his still-full nuts. That was what took me over the edge, like a barrel in rapids hitting a thousand foot waterfall.

"AWWWFUUCKKKKKKK!" I shouted as I felt it rip through me like lightning and felt my hips SLAM into him deep and plant themselves just as my first cumblast roared through from the base of my cock and along the length of me until I felt the hotter wetness around my head DEEP inside him. The climax was so intense I almost couldn't keep my footing as I dug my fingers into his skin to hold onto the only thing I had purchase on. And blasted . . . what seemed like forever but was probably only eight or nine real blasts . . . still damn impressive for a late-thirties guy who'd just shot his wad an hour before.

"FUCK YOU SHOOT HAAARRRRRDDDDD!" he cried out at some point, but I was lost in my release, not in control of anything except not moving my feet or hands from those precarious points of balance as my knees wobbled and the rest of me writhed through one of the most intense cum explosions I'd ever had.

When we were both done, just panting, frozen in place, he pulled forward gently, as if testing the waters. My hands released him, and I realized just how hard I'd clenched his waist and hips when my hands ached at the movement. He groaned long and low as he pulled forward off me. "UUUUUNNNNNGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" and then "AHHHSHITTTTTTT!" when my still-widely flared cockhead breached his cuntpucker and popped out.

Looking down at his sweat-sheened body and gaping fuckhole, my cum churned inside it and running out, my cock involuntarily twitched, and a glob of cum dripped over the side and off my bell-like head. "You gonna clean up the mess you made?" I croaked.

Scrambling around, wincing at the pain, probably from his wrecked cunt, he got himself to where his breath was on my cock and looked up with a devilish grin. "I will if you will!" he said, and swallowed me with a long moan. "MMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmm!"

As Bronson sucked my still-hard shaft clean of every speck of ass and cum goo, he'd given me no choice but to reciprocate, so when he had done enough in my estimation, including licking my sensitized nuts and sac clean of the drippings that had run down while I plowed him, I shoved him off. "My turn!"

He looked up, surprised, but immediately went to smoldering and flopped onto his back and pulled his knees up to his chest. As I dove down I inhaled the stink of our sex - the perfect aroma of male on male sex with equally healthy doses of mansweat and cum - and caught the close-up of his savaged fuckhole - swollen, red and gooey - awaiting me.

I went in without hesitation, prepared for anything - the taste of us, any unwelcome taste of his innards which sometimes just fucking happens and honestly isn't the end of the fucking earth! But his cunt was perfectly cummy and sweaty and clean otherwise, and I licked around the distended ring and then inside then went to work sucking out every bit I could get.

"AWWW JESUS HAPLOID CHRIST!" he moaned. "Between that bull cock and your tongue, CHRIST!" he moaned again, wriggling around my tongue and teeth and lips as I sucked, licked, lapped and nipped at his most manly private place . . . the place I'd just fucked to near eternity.

When I finally came up for air, he roughly scrabbled to grab my head and pull me up, over him and onto him, until our sweaty bodies, our sweat-soaked fur, were mashed together and we were face to face. For a moment I thought he was going to try to kiss me, and I tensed. "Easy there, colonel," he gently said up to me.

"Given this position and this circumstance, mind dropping the rank?" I shot back, by way of trying to stave off a more uncomfortable situation I thought was about to occur.

He grinned. "Easy, there, Bill. Nothing to get tense about at this point," he said soothingly. Then he leaned up to the side of my face and licked his tongue from my cheek across my upper lip and then around my mouth and underneath.

I involuntarily tensed again, thinking he'd attack my lips and mouth, and I'd have to put him through a fucking wall, drill sergeant or not! But instead, he pulled back, smacked his lips and then flopped his head back on the bed and wrapped his arms around me. "Thanks for sharing. And thanks for the best fuck I've ever had," he told me eye-to-eye, holding me tight.

Relaxing into a chuckle, I retorted, "Didn't know you had much experience on the receiving end, so not sure how significant that comparison is, but thanks, DRILLER!" I grinned down at him.

"HEY!" he protested. "If you didn't sense my talent as a bottom from THAT and know it wasn't just beginner's luck, well, then, I guess-"

I cut him off with a grin. "I'm thinking you're right. To really appreciate the DEPTH of your talent as a bitch, I'm thinking we probably need to give ourselves a minute and do this again!"

His eyes widened but also slitted momentarily. Then he ground up into my cock, which was close to half-hard at least, not softening much really. He grinned. "YOU may need a minute; my ass may need a BIT longer!" And with that he tightened his grip around me, pulling me even tighter into the clench and closing his eyes.

What the fuck? I thought to myself. I don't have to report until morning. I relaxed into him, onto him, and put my head by Bronson's aromatic, sweaty neck . . . inhaling the heady sexstink in the room and on each other . . . and closed my eyes, too.




 

BillyC

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