This story has a military aspect: it happened when I was in Edinburgh, to be interviewed by the GOC (General Officer Commanding), Scotland, who is also the Governor of Edinburgh Castle, and some other senior officers. I was facing a career hiatus and it had been put to me that, although not a Scot by birth, I had some Scots blood and might therefore be considered for Commanding Officer of a Scottish infantry battalion; a job which had become unexpectedly vacant. I had applied and been short-listed, but in the event the job went to someone else, with a famous Scottish surname.

I was later told that I had been eliminated as being too young and with not enough command experience, which was reasonable; well into my thirties, I looked younger and I had never commanded anything bigger than a company, although I was now a very recently-gazetted Lieutenant-Colonel. My suspicion was however that I was also too English in manner and appearance and had previously served in a very English regiment, the -----shire Fusiliers.

That unproductive visit to the Scottish capital was not however without excitement. Without having any excuse, I have a track record of sexual adventures: this despite being happily married, a proud father and, if that were not enough, in a stable relationship with my close friend Richard, who was an officer in another regiment. Richard was one of the most handsome men in the army; I loved him deeply; respected him enormously; slept with him as often as we could manage; but from time to time I seemed to need an outside adventure. At any rate, I got them. They happen to me, rather than my actively seeking them out. That is my excuse, anyway.

I had no idea, and could have had no idea, what was going to happen to me that day. Flipping through the free magazine in my hotel, I noticed an advertisement for the Samurai gym and sauna. Reading between the lines, it occurred to me that this might be, among other things, a discreet gay venue. But that was all. Much more importantly, it was near my hotel. I had half a day to kill; I needed a workout and wanted to have a relaxing sauna, before reconvening at the Castle later that afternoon. The cost of day membership was reasonable.

As it was the morning, when almost everyone would be at work, I expected to have the place to myself and certainly did not anticipate any adventures. It seemed that I was right: only a few young men were working out. I suspected that they were jobless and that this was their main activity and social venue: they clearly all knew each other. They looked serious and earnest.Some had finished their training and had showered. These men were looking flushed and clean; chatting in the Juice Bar or scanning the free newspapers that the management provided: especially the "situations vacant" section. If I were very unlucky, I could soon be doing the same thing.

The gym was in an eighteenth century town house in the New Town. By accident or design, a full length looking-glass, set between two windows, had survived from those days; it had a delicately-carved frame; a lovely piece. As I watched myself in a sweaty cross-country machine workout, I realised that I and the other muscle-hunks were disporting ourselves in some long dead countess's once-elegant morning room. How the ghosts must dislike that, I thought.

The spa was in a new extension, which covered most of the former back garden. I wondered how they had ever got planning permission. Having finished my workout and showered, I moved to the spa-sauna area and found it deserted. There was a large Jacuzzi, capable of accommodating twenty men. It looked inviting, scrupulously clean, and had a slight whiff of antiseptic: so far, so good. I lowered myself in; sat on the ledge; and stretched my arms out along the side. I leant back until I could see the domed, blue-mosaic ceiling above me. The owners had obviously wanted to create the atmosphere of a traditional Turkish bath-house in Istanbul. I relaxed. There was a murmur of voices.

"We'll soon find out, Pal," said a harsh Lowland-Scots voice, sotto voce. Two men had come in.

Both looked strong and tough. Both were older than me; in their fifties. The younger of the two, who later identified himself as "Tam", was still very fit and lean. He looked as if he ran and worked out every day; probably swam as well. He equally clearly never sunbathed. His sinews and muscles were coved in smooth, pale and nacreous skin. His nipples were rosy and stood out against his pale marble chest. His skin was delicate and translucent: I could see the faint blue lines of veins, like the veins in marble. I thought of the flaying of Marsyas. He had not much body hair, except at the groin. His face, neck and forearms were lightly tanned; nothing else. His close-cropped hair had once been reddish-fair. It was now pepper-and-salt, as the grey hairs infiltrated and began to outnumber the red. Tam came across as quiet; a natural second in command.

His friend, who played a larger part in these proceedings, turned out to be called Ian. Ian by contrast was larger than life; in all senses. He was about six-feet-six and very muscular. He was built like a brick shit-house, a pugilist, or a rugby forward; he could have been either of the last two, for all I knew. Ian's muscles were massive, but he was starting to run slightly to fat: not much, but he was definitely a little chubbier than he should have been. Maybe five years ago he had had a six-pack stomach. Now he had a slight, but undeniable, tummy. His face was still smiley and young-looking. The sensuous lips seemed likely to grin at any moment; his sardonic dark-blue eyes sparkled with humour; crude humour perhaps, but still humour. As often happens with dark-haired Scotsmen, his hair had gone prematurely grey though it was still thick and wavy. However his eyebrows and lashes were nearly as dark as they had been in his youth. Ian and Tam were of course naked, except - in Ian's case - for an Iona cross on a silver chain. This might be a devotional object or just fashion jewellery.

His slight tummy notwithstanding, I found Ian very attractive. He was still a magnificent man. He had broad shoulders, a nice ass and great, muscular thighs; I bet he looked good in a kilt. Possibly because he disliked his greying body hair, he had shaved all over, except for the hair at his crotch, which was still dark and curly. He was very well-hung. Ian had a few tattoos, but not many. On his biceps was some regimental heraldry that I did not recognise. Scottish Division, obviously; maybe a disbanded regiment; he was probably, given the heraldry; given his powerful physique; given his cocky air of leadership, an ex-Warrant Officer. I watched him through narrowed eyes.

Normally, I don't like tan-lines. I prefer men to be tanned all over, or not tanned at all, like Tam. White buttocks above bronzed legs do not appeal. Some things, in my book, should always if possible be done naked. They include swimming, sleeping, making love and of course sunbathing. Ian clearly did not sunbathe naked, but his tan line was definitely erotic. Either he had taken his holiday early that year, or he had put in a lot of time in a sun bed, of which the Samurai Club had plenty. For this he had worn a minuscule thong: this had exposed his buttocks, which were tanned, and plunged at the front to just expose the root of his glorious cock. I wondered whether he had shaved his crotch before he went off to Mykonos, or wherever it had been, or whether he had been happy for his dark pubic bush to be exposed. Nowhere was the tan line more than an inch across. In places it was much less: at the sides and at the back, where it tapered to a fine line and where the thong had fitted tightly between his buttocks. The un-tanned skin was pale, rosy and tender. I wanted to touch and kiss it.

Tam lowered himself in gently, but Ian jumped in with a splash, went underwater completely and swam a few strokes to where I was. He sat beside me.

"It's fucking good to relax," he said matily, and stretched out his legs.

Tam was now on my other side. It occurred to me for the first time that they might just possibly intend violence. I looked around for the exit.

"Relax, Pal," said Ian, "Chill out. We don't bite." He draped an arm round my shoulders.

He and Tam started to kiss, touch and caress me. This might have been meant to be relaxing but was in fact very exciting. I soon wanted to jack myself off, but whenever I reached down to touch my cock, Ian would firmly put my hand back on the side of the pool. He and Tam, though, touched my cock and balls expertly, never allowing me to come near ejaculation. Suddenly they changed tactic. They both slid a hand under my arse and inserted a finger into my man-hole, gently probing, massaging and stretching. Ian moved me slightly so that a jet of warm water from the filtration system went right inside me. I started to whimper.

"Clean as a whistle," said Ian and stood in front of me, his massive legs well apart. He looked down at me, smiled, bent down and kissed me on the mouth. He was a good kisser: that kiss lasted several moments. Then he ducked under the water, threw up my legs; stretched them apart and his tongue began exploring my ass. Again and again I came close to ejaculation, but he always denied me that.

Ian came up for air. He shook the water from his hair and looked at me. He grinned. I grinned back.

"D'ye fuck?" he asked.

"Yes! Yes, please!"

"Hear that, Tam? 'Yes please,' he says! He's a polite jock and no mistake!" He turned back to me: "How about being fucked?"

"I do that too!" I was now ablaze with desire for him. "Where can we go that's private?"

"Ah stay about ten minutes' walk from here. It's juist aff Leith Walk. Let's go there. C'mon, get dressed."

Since we were all in jeans, T-shirts and trainers, dressing did not take long. Then we walked in a silent patrol to Ian's flat. Once I wondered what I was letting myself in for: but anyway, in for a penny, in for a pound, I thought.

Ian lived in a top-floor flat in a Victorian tenement with no lift; only an oval spiral staircase. The staircase gave access, at each landing, to four flats. The higher you climbed, the lighter it got. At the very top was a glass cupola.

"Where d'you live, Ian?"

"Right at the fucking top, where you'd expect!" Somehow I did expect that; it was the safest place if someone was after you; like the IRA, for example.

"Okay: race you!" I ran off and upward. We were all pretty knackered when we reached Ian's front door. We were also laughing.

The flat was very obviously a single military man's home. It was austere, clean and orderly. There was a place for everything and everything seemed to be in its place. The walls were painted white. The kitchen was a model of order: there were a lot of gadgets, including a serious washing-machine, a dishwasher, and some very sharp knives in a block. The only plants looked like cooking herbs. They grew in a neat row of pots on the kitchen window-sill. On the street side the drawing- and dining- room windows showed a lot of sky, steeples, chimney-pots and TV aerials. On the other; the back, there was an attractive distant prospect of the Queen's Park and Salisbury Crags. This was best appreciated from the bedroom, the bathroom or the kitchen. Why could not the builders have arranged things differently?

In the drawing room, books were neatly arranged; mostly on military history. There were not many personal souvenirs; still less, ornaments. There were a few photographs; all black and white. One showed a cocky young soldier in a kilt, with dark curly hair, smiling broadly and arrogantly at the camera. He was in shirt-sleeve order. He had massive biceps. Young as he was, he had an air of authority; leadership; Ian the future NCO. Also, Ian the real bastard. He was also humungously desirable.

"You?" I asked.

"Me." said Ian. He was not going to elaborate.

Crikey, I thought, he could have had anyone he liked: he still could.

Other photos gave a few more clues: Ian on a motor-bike; Ian posing in boxing kit; Ian in soccer strip; Ian stripped to brief black trunks and laced boots, in a wrestling pose. There was something cruel in his sardonic, confident smile. (Come on, let me smash you up!) He looked what he was: in boxing or wrestling parlance, "a handsome heel". In my experience of those sports, handsome heels were even more dangerous than the ugly variety: my chum and lover Richard, an amateur boxer, was one. There was even a photo of Ian bollock-naked; dark cloud of hair above pale, heavy sex; grinning at the camera without any embarrassment. I understood about that.

A remark of Richard's came back to me: "If I'm to box successfully, I have not just to be the best, but to look the best. I need to be able to strip naked and love what I see in the mirror. I'm obsessed with my body. Okay, it is narcissism, but it serves a purpose. It's a murderous kind of narcissism. And really, it is the same with everything else. The best pleasure known to Man is to be true to yourself; not to have to compromise. It's the rules that we impose on ourselves that matter: not conventional religion or morality; still less political correctness, for which I have nothing but contempt. The rules that I choose to observe: the code of military honour; the Queensberry Rules; the code of sporting behaviour; - these matter. If I can lie down at the end of the day and say 'I have been true to all that,' then that is the deepest joy of all; and fuck everybody else, with their stunted, little, compromised lives." I had occasionally wondered whether that included me. I sensed that Richard and Ian would have been on the same wavelength.

"Me and Tam are going to take you on a journey" said Ian. "Now get your kit off!"

Ian sat there as I stripped, and he watched me. He smoked a cigarette. Then he stood up and kissed me. I could taste the tobacco and coffee on his breath.

"For the next hour or two you are mine; I own you. You'll do as you're fucking-well told." Then he smiled. "But you won't regret it!"

There was a long painted wooden chest in the middle of the room, with a few cushions scattered on it, which now Ian threw off onto the floor. It looked a bit like an altar; it also had a few more handles than it strictly needed.

"Sit on that," Ian ordered. "Just a moment: what size of shoe do you take?"

"Ten. What's that go to go with anything?"

Tam left the room. He came back with a pair of wrestling boots.

"A fetish of mine; put them on." I did as I was told. Tam helped me lace them up. "You will not wear anything else until I've finished with you. Even if the army, the navy, the police and the fire brigade come to the front door, you stay naked, Pal."

"Now what?"

"Now we start you on your journey! Got the ropes, Tam?" Tam brought some ropes.

It is stupid and dangerous to allow yourself to be tied up by a stranger. Quite a few gay men have been murdered and mutilated; not necessarily in that order, or bare-back raped and infected with HIV, as a result of having consented to this. I have never done so except with Ian. But I felt okay with him. There was trust - even a sort of brutal friendship - between us right from the very start: whether or not he knew it, and I suspect that he had guessed, we were both Army. Even so, I might have had second thoughts, if I had been capable of imagining the sexual roller-coaster I was about to experience.

"First thing, you're going to take some punishment," chuckled Ian. "But you're up for it, aren't you?"

I nodded.

"Good man," he muttered. "You're no' a wimp. I knew you weren't when I saw you there in the pool. I can tell."

I was tied up in an uncomfortable position, crouching on the wooden chest with my hands tied together in front of me and my raised ass exposed. Ropes secured me firmly to the handles on the side. My legs were pretty well immobilised and another rope had been tied tightly round my cock and balls, which ensured the continual hard erection of my empurpled cock, and attached somehow to the wooden chest, which made doubly sure that I could not move much without acute pain. From time to time Ian would tweak my cock or squeeze my balls. Tam buckled a black vulcanite bit-gag across my mouth.

"Ye can bite on that when we start really hurting you," he chuckled.

Tam strapped a black leather collar round my neck. Then I got the shock of my life. Ian showed me a huge stainless-steel hook whose tip, instead of being pointed, ended in three large balls.

"Guess where that's going?"

I guessed, and nodded. Tam rubbed some lube into my man-hole, profiting by the occasion to thrust his finger deep inside. I braced myself. A moment later that hook was being slowly inserted into my hole, stretching it mightily, and then tied tightly by a rope to my collar.

Tam was muttering to me, "Take it... go on, take it! Take it like a man! Now take the next ball.."

Any movement now caused the first steel ball to thrust hard against my prostate, causing further pain and serious arousal. What with that and the tether attached to my genitals, I had to remain very still. But that would be difficult over the next few minutes.

"Know what these are?" Ian grinned wickedly at me. In either hand he led a whip: a cat - of more than nine tails - which he brandished. He then walked behind me and started to work on me. He knew what he was doing. Using the cats together, he worked carefully down my back from the shoulders to the buttocks and the backs of my thighs. He didn't miss a square centimetre. Now and again he would flick a cat between my legs to sting my cock and balls. I know, because they both told me, that my back and hindquarters were soon bright red from the flogging.

It wasn't as bad as it sounds, for two reasons. One was that I had been trained in counter-interrogation techniques. Even if you are gagged and immobile, you can neutralise a lot of the pain by breathing and mind control. Another was that, after a time, I began to enjoy it. A great feeling of warmth began to bloom inside me, starting in the groin area and extending all over my body. I surrendered to it and basked in it.

"You okay, bastard?" asked Ian cheerfully. He unbuckled the gag.

"I'm okay," I said.

Ian brought his face within inches of mine. He was now giving a good imitation of a furious sergeant-major.

"Well, you fucking-well shouldn't be!" he shouted.

I grinned up at him. "Well I fucking-well am!"

Ian shouted again. "I fucking-well am, WHAT?"

I realised that I was getting the customary "beasting" that he had handled out to countless nervous recruits. It was like being back at Sandhurst. So I shouted again:

"I fucking-well am, SIR!"

Ian again brought his face close to mine. Now he really was grinning. "Oho! There's more to you than meets the eye, isn't there? You're a whole lot harder than you look. What are you really? I'll find out. But first, you'll pay for that insolence."

Still smiling and never taking his eyes from mine, he stripped and hung his clothes over a chair. His huge cock was already hard. He was very excited. He really enjoyed beasting a man! A sheen of pre-cum had appeared on his glans.

"Now, you know what to do," he said, coming closer to me. "But beware, Boy. If I feel your teeth, you're for it."

He shoved his cock into my mouth. It was enormous: I could hardly breathe.

Even if you are not tied up, it is difficult to fellate a man without occasionally touching his cock with your teeth. With a cock the size of Ian's, there was no chance to avoid that. I enjoy the sensation of teeth on mine, in a kinky way. Not so Ian:

"I said nae fucking teeth!" he shouted. He withdrew his cock and caught me a few slaps across the face. "What do you say?"

The correct answer was, I suppose, "Sorry Sir!" Instead, I said "Fuck you, Sir!"

"Right! You've asked for it!" he shouted.

Firstly, the ass-hook was roughly pulled out of me and a much bigger butt-plug shoved in, in its place. This was both painful and mind-blowing. Then he started to cut me across the ass-cheeks and backs of the thighs with a bamboo cane. That genuinely hurt. It took a few days for the red marks to go away: Ian had got carried away in his enthusiasm. Finally:

"I need a rest!" shouted Ian. "You handle him, Tam!" Ian sat down and smoked another cigarette, while never taking his dark eyes off me. Tam, who was now naked, walked towards me. He pulled out the butt-plug. Suddenly, I felt his sharp, rough tongue in my ass. He was rimming me, presumably prior to fucking me.

There came a warning growl from Ian: "Watch it, Tammy! Don't go getting ideas! That boy is Ian's. Turn him over," said Ian.

I let myself be turned over. I was now on my back. My arms were tied to the handles on the side of the chest. My legs were doubled up, the thighs and calves tightly bound together. My head, projecting beyond the end of the chest, was unsupported. I let it hang down and looked at the world upside-down.

"This is your great moment," said Ian. "I'm going to fuck your brains out. You've never been fucked like this before."

This was true, or nearly true. Ian was standing close to my head and, looking up, I could see his massive, erect weapon. What I did not tell him was that this had happened once before. A few years earlier I had been mega-fucked by the legendary, herculean Lieutenant-Colonel Bob Gordon of 5 Para (then a Major) and had lived to tell the tale, although I had had to be pretty careful about sitting down for a day or two after that. Bob was as big as Ian, in every sense; he had boxed and played rugby for the Army. Unlike Ian, he was a gentleman and was not a sadist, although he was very over-sexed. I reckoned that I knew more or less what I was in for. (I was wrong: Ian fucked like no-one else.) It would be total submission to a much bigger and stronger man; complete penetration and violation. I was up for it. The challenge was not to cry for mercy: I had to show how tough I was.

Ian climbed onto the chest and knelt with his thighs on either side of mine. My bound legs were pushed upwards and outwards.

"Tak' a look, Jimmy," he said. I jerked my head up and looked at him as he smiled and slowly but very firmly, thrust his weapon into me. Despite having been stretched the meat-hook and the butt-plug, this was bigger than I could have imagined and it was a tight fit. When he hit my prostate, I experienced a rock-hard erection and started to seep pre-cum in my turn. I was gasping for breath.

"I haven't finished yet," said Ian."That was just the warm-up. This is your execution."

"I'm your man," I said faintly. No way would I beg to be reprieved. Ian would have gone ahead in any case. Anyway, I wanted it.

"You're that, all right," was his not-entirely reassuring response.

He withdrew completely and then thrust brutally right inside, the full length of his member. I roared. But, believe it or not, it was great. It hurt like hell, but I was beyond that. I was his completely and he took me, thoroughly; again and again.

"Bastard!" I shouted. He just laughed.

What was in it for me? Like a lot of men, I like to test myself to the limit, whether at sport or on the Brecon Beacons. This was the sexual equivalent of SAS selection. At no point did I cry "mercy!" though I got pretty close to it. But this was not just competitive sexual athletics. Most of my life I had had to show leadership and responsibility, always taking the initiative. Just occasionally, it is great to surrender physically to another, more masterful man and let him take total control. Even as Ian jack-hammered my guts, a profoundly peaceful feeling of helplessness came over me. It was Over to Ian. I seriously believe that every man, especially if he is an Alpha Male, and however straight he may be, should have this experience at least once: full physical penetration and domination by a skilful master whom he respects and trusts totally. I cannot explain, but it satisfies a very deep, very dark masculine need that is hard to define.

Then it was my turn. Ian did not untie me, but lowered himself onto my erect cock and rode me till I almost came, when he climbed off. Then it was Tam's turn. Of course; the lion cub only gets to feed after the lion has finished. I finally came inside Tam. I was now exhausted. Fortunately my recovery time is pretty good. For about fifteen minutes I lay on Ian's bed in Ian's arms, trembling and shivering like a nervous horse. This time, he was gentle and kind. Then I pulled myself together.

Half an hour later, showered and relaxed, we were talking and laughing like old friends after a match. Ian had made us mugs of strong coffee - naturally, he had a space-age percolator - and produced some biscuits. I was still sore all over; especially my ass, but it was a good ache. Ian and Tam were now in black bathrobes. I was still naked, on Ian's orders. For some reason I did not mind this. We sat there chatting over our coffee as though we had all been fully-clad.

"You're in a class of your own, Ian," I said,dipping a biscuit in my coffee.

"Aye," smiled Ian, who was comfortable with the compliment. "Ah ken that!" He added: "You gave me a lot of pleasure too. More than you realise. You gave me three-in-one, so you did!"

"How d'you mean?"

"Three things I really enjoy: fucking a bloody Englishman; fucking a big, handsome, cocksure rugger-bugger; fucking a fucking officer, and making them all yell. I reckon you're all three!"

"What makes you think I'm an officer, Ian?"

"Your fucking cockiness and the fact that you wear those daft Bengal-striped boxer shorts! Nae proper squaddie wad wear them!"

"Well, touché, Ian. What ought I to wear?"

"Sexy wee briefs, scarlet for choice; they'll match your ass-cheeks! Tak' a look in the mirror before ye put on yer jeans and ye'll see what I mean. That's what I want you to wear next time, or maybe a jock strap. Real men wear them."

"Next time?"

"Aye there'll be a next time! You'll be back. You fucking desire me and I fucking desire you, Pal. I've a lot more to teach you! We'll get together again, never fear. Here's my number."

His card said Master Ian McCluskie: Master of the Arts of Pain, I presumed.

Later that afternoon, at the Castle:

"Good afternoon, Colonel! Let me introduce my fellow board-members.... Would you prefer to sit or to stand for this part of the interview?"

Given the state of my ass, I had no hesitation at all. "Stand, please, General."

"Okay, stand at ease, stand easy."

As I said, I did not get the battalion I had hoped for; but I have been back to Edinburgh more than once, on different pretexts. Ian and I have a secretive but close relationship, which cuts across nationality, rank, class and everything else.

He grins and laughs when I arrive. We hug roughly and he pinches my nipples painfully through my shirt. "Back for some more punishment, eh, Pal? You're either fucking brave or fucking stupid! C'mon, get yer kit off; yes, now, this minute! In this house you are always bollock-naked, remember! Let's look at you. Been working on those abs like I telled ye?"

Once more I am tied up in a painful posture.

A few minutes later: "See this, Jimmy? It's my new boy's toy; an electric cattle-prod! We're goin' tae have real fun with this: or at least I am!"

 

Max Markham

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