McSpunk's Adventure

There was no doubt about it: Lieutenant Richard Finch had something about him, unusual in such a very young man; a quiet, powerful presence that made itself felt. The men in his platoon knew it and respected him for it; even those who did not particularly like Richard as a person. His Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Philip Weekes, was also well-aware of it. 

Over coffee with his Adjutant, Adrian Andrews, Weekes invited his comments. Not greatly to his surprise, Captain Andrews' remarks were guarded.

“Stop beating about the bush, Adrian. What do you really think?”

“He's a physical sort of guy, what they used to call 'a man of action'” said Andrews. “A man's man. And the men appreciate that; they'd follow him anywhere, or most of them would...”

“What about the ones who wouldn't? Who are they? Why, I ask myself, wouldn't they eagerly follow him anywhere and everywhere like the others?”

“The ones who have reservations about Mr. Finch are the 'old soldiers'; not that they are old; just more experienced,” said Andrews. “They say that he's a dangerous man; he has no fear of anything, so he could get you killed if you're in his platoon. But they respect that; they wouldn't frag him, even if they have reservations about dying themselves.”

“Those reservations are understandable. What about our Battalion troublemaker, Lance-Corporal McSpunk?” Lieutenant Colonel Weekes continued. “How's he getting on with Finch?”

“They had a personality clash,” admitted Andrews.

“Why am I not surprised?” interjected Weekes.

“But that didn't last,” Andrews continued. “No names, no pack-drill, but Richard Finch rescued him from a dangerous situation of McSpunk's own creation and now McSpunk thinks that the sun shines out of Richard's... navel. You might even say that he hero-worships him!” 

“Are they sleeping together?”

“Am I obliged to answer that?”

“No; I'm asking you as a friend, and off-the-record!”

“Yes; I believe so, but not often and very discreetly; always off-base. And it has had a beneficial effect on McSpunk.”

“Crikey! In what way?”

“He has enormous respect for any man who can fuck him senseless, which is what Richard did. The first time, he could hardly walk and had to apply for a day's sick leave. Usually it's McSpunk who emerges as the undisputed victor, and the other guy who can't walk or do much else!”  

“So that's okay, then,” muttered Lieutenant Colonel Weekes. “At least, I suppose it is. But if the media should ever get hold of this kind of thing...!”

“We have ways of ensuring that they do not,” said the Adjutant.

"Like that man whose parachute failed to open, I suppose?"

II

At that same time Richard Finch, in his office down the corridor, was also pondering the McSpunk challenge. He doodled his thoughts on some paper which he later carefully shredded. They went something like this: 

'Lance-Corporal McSpunk is the offspring of a broken home, raised on a Glasgow sink estate and probably suckled on bad beer. He came to the army as a skinny, spotty ginger-haired youth but has blossomed since then. He is now a pocket (five foot-six at most) Hercules who boxes, wrestles (unofficially but very well) and plays rugby. Good at all forms of unarmed combat, which he has occasionally used on nasty civilians. He is quite good-looking is a Scots sort of way: ginger hair, stiffened with gel, cut short all over; except at the front, where he lets it get just long enough to form a quiff. Big, cheeky grin; snub nose; ruddy, freckled countenance. He's now nearly 22 but looks and acts a lot younger; the other soldiers treat him as a mascot, “little Corporal Rusty” and this does not encourage him to mature. They look after him and rescue him when he gets into messes and dangerous situations of his own making. He needs to grow up. 

'There is one other undoubted thing: McSpunk has enormous sex-appeal. I am not sure how to define it, but he just has to look at a man in a certain way, smile at him, and the other guy's prick goes ramrod-hard. Being straight is no protection; there is no immunity, in fact McSpunk loves seducing straight men. Once Roddy McSpunk has made eye contact, all that the other guy can think of is having sex with McSpunk. McSpunk is well-aware of this and enjoys it. He should be more careful.  

'He's out today arranging our use of the firing range at Frotton. I hope that he's not getting into trouble there...'

Needless to say, that was what did happen; for McSpunk was determined to have an adventure, and did.

Richard, who was very competitive, was determined that his regimental team should win the regional rifle championship. Since the range nearest to his barracks was not always available, Richard was on the lookout for other ranges where his team could put in a morning's or afternoon's extra practice. Frotton Barracks, in the next garrison town, looked promising. It had accommodation for three infantry battalions and a squadron of cavalry. However at present only one battalion of infantry was stationed there. The local Territorials and civilian rifle clubs were using the range more often than the Regular Army did.   

"Bingo!" thought Richard. A telephone inquiry to the Blankshire Rifles, who were the sole battalion at Frotton, confirmed that they were happy to let the Paras train there. There were some formalities to be completed - paperwork in other words - and it would be a good idea if someone from the Paras were to inspect the range in advance. 

"Time spent in reconnaissance is seldom wasted, Lance-Corporal McSpunk," said Richard. "Now here's what to check on." He handed McSpunk a typed list. "Any questions?" 

McSpunk, who was a slow reader, brooded over the sheet for a few moments, tongue protruding. He nodded and smiled. Richard continued:

"Borrow a Land Rover and don't get caught speeding. When you get there, present this letter to the Duty Officer, who is Captain Robin Cooper. He or someone else will accompany you to the range, which you will inspect carefully and report back to me, Provided that you follow instructions and are polite to everybody you meet, you'll be fine. I shouldn't say this, McSpunk, because you're quite self-satisfied enough as it is, but you can be charming when you want to be. Make sure that you are, when you meet the Blankshires. We want to keep on good terms with them! Any questions?"

McSpunk stood up, straightened himself and saluted smartly. 

"Yes Sir! Understood, Sir!" Then he grinned and added in a lower tone: "Eh! ye're a darlin' boy, as Sergeant Kincaid would say!"

Richard was not standing for this: "Dismiss! Right turn! left- right left-right..."

The insufferable McSpunk marched out, trying to keep a straight face. Richard turned to his next task, which was planning the Company's overseas adventurous training the following year.

III

At Frotton Barracks Captain Robin Cooper greeted McSpunk, inquired after Richard, for whom he had a genuine, albeit wary, respect, excused himself to sign off some letters and promised to take McSpunk to inspect the rifle range almost immediately. McSpunk sat down to wait. 

McSpunk's taste in civilian clothes was, as Richard had reason to know, outrageous. He favoured the tightest jeans, showing off his muscles and genital bulge, usually in pale shades; almost transparent shirts, which in fine weather he wore gaping open to the navel; large belts with decorative buckles; glistening, ass-skimming leather waistcoats or bomber jackets; Doc Martin boots and bling jewelry that tended to incorporate phallic motifs. 

By contrast, McSpunk in uniform looked ultra-smart, a Hollywood soldier. His hair was short; his boots shone; his shirt was crisp, freshly-laundered, and displayed creases in all the right places; his green combat trousers were carefully ironed and held in place by a maroon stable-belt. The trousers in question were almost skin-tight, but that was normal Para style. Likewise, the large external buttons that secured the breeches fly and minimized the risk of painful and undignified incidents with parachute harness. McSpunk sat with his arms folded and legs wide-apart. His button-straining bulge was noticeable. 

McSpunk's shirt-sleeves were neatly rolled back to just above the elbow; he had powerful forearms with a light coating of red-gold hair on the ruddy, freckled skin. On one arm he sported a clunky watch; on the other, a 'tribal' tattoo which seemed to be abstract but which, if studied very closely, showed two strong men engaged in an intricate, stylized soixante-neuf. Once, absent-mindedly, he scratched his balls.                             

Captain Cooper noticed, but said nothing. He was finding McSpunk's presence disconcerting but had not yet worked out why...

Captain Cooper was of a type that appealed strongly to McSpunk; He was much taller, over six feet; he was a mix of toughness and tenderness, masculinity and boyishness. He was obviously fit and strong; the bits of his skin that were visible were tanned, but also smooth and delicate. McSpunk instinctively knew that, despite his muscles, Cooper's body would be flawless and almost hairless, except at the crotch and armpits; a boy's skin, not a man's. It would be golden-brown; lightly tanned, except where his trunks had been. Cooper had, of course, no tattoos. His silky fair hair fell away from a high parting. From time to time he jerked his head sideways when his forelock fell over his eyes. His nose, like McSpunk's, was snub; his lips were full, pink and made to be kissed. His long legs were encased in well-cut khaki trousers; his brown oxfords shone like highly-polished conkers. He clearly had a good soldier servant. McSpunk wondered idly whether the gallant Captain wore boxer shorts or briefs.  

Robin Cooper looked up and met McSpunk's gaze. He was looking at the Captain under lowered eyelids and smiling; not innocently. Cooper gave McSpunk a frown, which did not have the intended effect; it made Cooper look sexier than ever to McSpunk. 

On his side Cooper found that McSpunk conjured up forgotten and unwelcome memories of his former school; schoolboy crushes, fierce friendships, moments of lust in the changing rooms and around the swimming bath; the resultant storms inside his trousers; torrid dreams, and the one or two occasions when he had taken it further... He blushed angrily and addressed McSpunk in clipped tones: 

"All right, McSpunk, we'll go to the rifle range now. We'll use my car. I've got to stop off at my house on the way to change and pick up some kit."    

"Sir, Yes sir!" said McSpunk, rising smartly and standing to attention.

II

Captain Cooper's house was one of a row of indistinguishable two-storied semis in a suburban road near the barracks. Built to last, probably in the 1930s, they all had pebble-dashed facades, overlaid with grey Snowcem. Each possessed a garage and a wartime Anderson shelter, now converted into a garden shed. McSpunk was ushered into a sitting room adorned with reproductions of David Shepherd paintings of African wildlife. Wise Old Elephant was over the fireplace. Evidently Cooper had had an enjoyable posting in Africa sometime in the past; exotic seashells, a few African curios and a small Zanzibar chest confirmed that impression.  

"Wait here a moment", said Cooper. "I've got to change into combat kit." He headed upstairs.

This is my moment, thought McSpunk. He could move silently when he wanted to. He now crept upstairs, found what looked like a spare bedroom and stripped to his jockstrap, which had a scarlet genital pouch. Then he walked across the landing to Cooper's bedroom and pushed the door open dramatically. To Mc Spunk's pleasure, Cooper was naked apart from high-cut, sky-blue bikini briefs. His long, strong legs were tanned, as McSpunk had expected; Pfwoar! Cooper looked round in surprise. His eyes widened:

"What the fuck's going on!?"

McSpunk grinned, winked, walked over to him, stood on tiptoe and kissed him, while squeezing Cooper's genitals through the flimsy sky-blue nylon briefs. Cooper pulled himself free and aimed a punch at McSpunk's head. That was a mistake; McSpunk easily caught his wrist and executed a wrestling throw. Cooper found himself on his back, on the floor. Seconds later McSpunk was kneeling astride him, forcing Cooper's hands back until they were pinned on the floor. McSpunk leant forwards and gave him a second lascivious kiss. 

Two minutes later Cooper was lost. His briefs had been pulled off and thrown across the room. With them went his last inhibitions. Minutes after that, following expert fellatio by McSpunk, to get Cooper hard, McSpunk was riding his cock. Cooper was bucking under McSpunk and both were approaching orgasm, when... 

Ding dong, ding dong! The front door bell chimed like a miniature Big Ben, followed by a female voice calling through the letter-box: 

"Cooee! Robin! Are you there? I've forgotten my key. Can you let me in? Robin!?"

"Fuck, it's my wife!!"

McSpunk got up hastily. Cooper seized his bathrobe, pulled it on and hid any incriminating evidence. 

"That's that! You've got to get out through the window, now! Hide round the back! Leave when the coast is clear. Oh fuck!" he told McSpunk and hurried downstairs to greet her.

After mwah! mwah! kissing and nuzzling noises, McSpunk heard him saying:

"You're lucky! I was just about to step into the shower; ten minutes after that, I'd have been gone!

Thank goodness you were still here!" she replied. "I've got to collect those cakes from the kitchen and shoot straight off to the garrison church bazaar. As it is, I'm late!'  

McSpunk, who was no stranger to quick exits from sexual situations, had regained the spare bedroom, shrugged on a few clothes, tied the rest up in a bundle and, half-naked, got through the window and down a drainpipe into the back garden. As no-one seemed to be around, he dressed slowly and carefully behind the garage, using the reflection in the garage window as a mirror. He set the red beret on his head at the correct angle and grinned at himself. His ass was aching in a good kind of way. 

Bugger! Pity she had to arrive then; just when things were getting really interesting! Damn women! he mused. Then he chuckled as he remembered Cooper's panic-stricken face. 

No-one notices a smart young soldier walking briskly through Army married quarters; he could be about one of a hundred legitimate kinds of business. McSpunk started to march back towards the barracks. He saluted a solitary Sergeant. Apart from him, no one spoke to, or paid any attention to, or even noticed McSpunk. However he was not destined to reach the barracks just yet.  

A car drew up with a screech of brakes; Cooper, looking desperate, was driving it. "Get in," he said tersely. "I've not finished with you yet!"

"We still going to the range?" asked McSpunk, smiling innocently.

"Too right, we are!" was the response. They sped off, exceeding the speed-limit.

The shooting range, which was out of town, was deserted. They made a cursory inspection. Neither of their minds was on shooting. Thereafter Cooper walked over to a wooden hut with a tarred roof, to one side of the butts. 

"It's the range-keeper's hut. He's a retired soldier who was badly injured years back. He has this job until he qualifies for a pension. But he's not here today; Thursday is his day off." 

Cooper produced a large key and opened the door. The hinges creaked. The hut was stuffy and warm; the stove had been burning earlier and was still giving out heat. There was a mingled smell of fried bacon, tobacco and something else; Gun-oil? One or two pictures from girlie magazines were pinned up to brighten the range-keeper's existence. They looked dated; the girls' poses were relatively modest and they showed tan-lines. Modern porn-girls did not have tan-lines. There was no ceiling, just beams and the roof above them; it was dark up there.   

"Now we're going to finish our unfinished business," said Cooper. "Get stripped!"

"You first," said McSpunk. 

For a moment Captain Cooper looked as though he were going to hit McSpunk again; then he started pulling off his clothes. Soon he was down to his blue briefs. McSpunk was only a few seconds behind him. They stared at each other; who was going to make the first move? McSpunk, of course. 

McSpunk ran his hands appreciatively over Cooper, up and down his long golden legs. He pulled down the blue briefs and greedily swallowed the young officer's rosy cock. Cooper gave a great gasp and groan.  

The range keeper had a bed in one corner of the hut. It was not made up, although a pile of blankets was neatly stacked nearby. Like all army blankets, however freshly-laundered, they smelt slightly of male sweat; a smell that turned McSpunk on. There were no cases on the pillows; evidently the range keep did not often sleep there. No matter. McSpunk quickly spread out some blankets and motioned to Cooper to join him. They were soon in a passionate, rough and tumble embrace. They felt and enjoyed the harsh male kiss of the blankets on their bare skin. Moments later, after a few kisses and gentle struggles, McSpunk was on top of, and astride, Cooper, who was lying face-down. McSpunk was massaging Cooper's back and buttocks, which the Captain, although still shaken, was enjoying. It was time to raise his game. 

Cooper was soon back in shock when McSpunk suddenly rimmed, then fingered, his man-hole. The first time that happens, it is usually a shock; Cooper's yell could have been heard in the next county. 

"Just relax," chuckled McSpunk. "You've got a lot to learn."

A few moments later McSpunk was fucking the young Captain; at first slowly, then fast and hard. He sensed that Cooper wanted to be treated as a man, not gently. Sperm splashed the blankets as Cooper celebrated the biggest orgasm of his life, while McSpunk achieved much the same result in his ass. 

Later, still naked, they were hugging, laughing and kissing.

"You're a complete bastard, you know!" said Cooper. "Did you say you did rugby and wrestling? I can now believe that!"

"True. Gis anither kiss my canty callant!" replied McSpunk.

Cooper obliged enthusiastically.

'He's mine now,' thought McSpunk smugly as Cooper's tongue slid into his mouth.