Quartermaster

For me, joining the army was not an option. It was comprehensively in my blood because of my father and grandfather. From the earliest time I could remember, I loved being in the company of military men. Do not get me wrong, I loved my mother and grandmother, who always preferred male company in any case, but outside of that, females always bored the living shit out of me.   

I had three brothers and one sister. Nancy, my sister, was okay, but the rough interaction with my brothers far surpassed that relationship. Blue eyes, broken noses, and bruises were an everyday occurrence in our daily existence, and being the youngest of the male siblings, needless to say, my life growing up was not easy.

On the odd occasion that I tried to garner sympathy from my father, his advice to my appeals was always the same. “Stop being a sissy, and fight harder!”

Although corporal punishment was universally on the decline, in our household, however, it remained alive and well. Our father was a firm believer that actions spoke louder than words. Early on, I discovered that my brother’s beatings and dad’s punishment sexually excited me, and I would provoke them all endlessly. Occasionally, I gave as good as I got with my brothers and was always proud when my dad gushed his approval.

Unsurprisingly, I followed my brothers into the military. I wanted above all else, to become a marine.

My rough upbringing stood me in good stead, and I finally achieved my goal. On my first mission to the Middle East, with ‘Semper Fi’ pulsing through my veins, I had never been prouder in my life.

As this is not a war story, I will restrict myself to the subject at hand, which was my initiation into rough, gay sex. As one would suspect, I was very cautious throughout my training and initial combat missions. That all changed when I met a DILF named Rogan Roberts. He was a sergeant and the quartermaster on our base. Roberts was in his forties and a thorough jarhead. Although he had been married, his wife fortunately soon recognized the warning signs and divorced him after a couple of years. All things military absorbed Roberts’ life. He always preferred being around his comrades instead of spending time with his wife.

As all gay men know, there is an optical interaction between men of similar tastes. Although not deliberate, especially in the military, the mutual and visual horny interplay between men batting for the ‘other side’ got revealed. Even in my late teens, I had experienced sexual encounters with the odd neighbour, fellow student, and cousins, unlike my brothers who vigorously pursued pussy. My father found my female abstinence perplexing, but my mother viewed it as remarkable. Her theory was further entrenched after my brothers got forced to marry after putting their girlfriends up the spout.

Roberts had seen a lot of action, but at his age, his function and duties changed, and the quartermaster role suited him perfectly. Back home there was nothing more important to him, and he loved being as close to the thick of things. This, after all, was his sole purpose in life. Although he was beyond his action days, one could see he was a real warhorse who had seen many engagements.   

As I observed him more and more in our communal mess, the eye contact between us started to escalate. Without being conceited, I was a big, six-foot-two hunk and good-looking. In addition, I had blond hair and blue eyes that always stood me in good stead.

One evening, both he and I arrived late at the mess. As the tent was emptying, he sidled up to me and suggested we sit together. 

After we sat down, he said, “I am Roberts, the quartermaster. What is your name, boy? 

“Fanshaw, spelled, Featherstonehaugh,” I explained.

“Jesus… That’s a mouthful!” he exclaimed.

“That’s what they all say,” I mischievously responded.

With the ice now broken, we began to chat. Instantly, our eyes intertwined in a sexual wrestling match.

“I haven’t seen you in my depot,” he stated, referring to his substantial tent, before adding, “My living quarters are at the back… It’s very private.”

“Will I be safe?” I impishly inquired. 

“Oh, yeah, I’ve got all the protection you need,” he matter-of-factly responded.

Flummoxed, I incredulously affirmed, “Protection?”

“Yeah. I have boxing gloves and a gum guard for you.”

“Why would I want to fight you?” I disbelievingly asked.

“You’re a marine boy; you above all should know that proclivities get earned. I can tell you got properly raised. I bet your dad did not spare the rod or the odd fist when you got out of hand. Those tell-tale scars on your hands and face tell me all I need to know. The thing is, the winner gets to fuck first,” he brazenly concluded.  

I had never before been more excited in my life and popped an instant boner. As I looked at his thick fingers, I almost salivated, thinking of how good they would feel slapping and punching my body.

When we had finished eating, he dismissively arose and said, “You know where I am, I see you when I see you… Do not forget to put Vaseline on your pucker.” Before I could respond, he departed.

As I got to my tent, I lay down on my stretcher with my mind in turmoil. Much as I was aching to visit Roberts that night, I decided not to do so and pay him back for his overconfidence.

Unlike my second eldest brother, I would never describe myself as a great boxer. Fortunately, my brother had never broken my nose, but I had more split lips than I could remember. My skill, however, was that I was a handy wrestler.

I had a restless night with Roberts permeating my mind. I was nervous but excited, wondering what punishment lay ahead. Well-built as I was, Roberts had a clear thirty-pound advantage over me. From inquiries the following day, I also knew that he had been a very formidable boxer and had won many contests in the past.

At the mess the following evening, both of us again arrived later. As we sat across from each other, Roberts began making clucking sounds.

“I’m not chicken. I was just too tired last night,” I tried to qualify.

After more clucking, he said, “You’re chicken shit, pretty boy.” In a mixed metaphor, he then continued, “If it quacks like a duck, it’s a duck.”

Again, my horniness was going into overdrive.

In lustful bravado, I challengingly responded, “I am going to kick your arse, old-timer.”  

“Mmm, I’ll be waiting if you don’t chicken out again.”

“Luckily, I have the medic’s number,” I challengingly retorted.

When I entered his private quarters that night, he was only wearing a pair of skimpy shorts. Roberts had the most beautiful, hefty body, and he was fuckin’ hot. Above all, the bulge in his skimpy shorts was spectacular. I watched in awe as he threw my boxing gloves and gum guard at my feet.

“Put the gloves on and place the guard in your mouth, pussy-boy,” he commanded.  

After removing my t-shirt and trainers, I slipped on the gloves after placing the gum guard in my mouth. During this process, I watched Roberts’ delighted expression.

Once our battle commenced, the blows we exchanged were tentative and restrained. He was, holding back, although my efforts were a little more animated. After we had built up a healthy sweat, Roberts delivered a blow to my chin I did not see coming. I instantly saw darkness as I sank to my knees.

I have no idea how long I was unconscious. When I awoke, I was naked and lying face down on Roberts’ bed. Apart from his heaviness as he pinned me down, my arse was on fire as he cavalierly plowed my arse.

“Oh, yeah, pretty boy, guess who’s arse now belongs to me,” he growled.

As he then relentlessly pummelled my backside, he began sounding like a kindly father soothing a distressed child as I whimpered. I had never experienced this level of sensuality in my life, and although my arse ached, I was in heaven.

“Yes, daddy’s boy, are you he kept enjoying this?” he kept intoning.

Gurgling like a contented infant, I purred my acquiescence.

“Do you like this big mushroom head scouring your arse?” he groaned.

“Mmm, it’s just a little sore,” I answered bravely.

“Well, maybe you just need some more time to adapt,” he countered.

Roberts now instantly placed me in a headlock, and shortly, darkness once more set in. I cannot describe how sensual this extreme level of control was.

When I again awoke, he was ardently licking my ear. “Mmm, it looks like my baby is awake again. Is your arse feeling better?” Roberts inquired, still murmuring as before.

“Yes,” I truthfully answered, in a boyish fashion, enhancing the daddy and son charade.

Roberts now began to intensify his pace, and soon our vocalization deepened to a guttural level as he fucked the hell out of me. With both of us sweating profusely, Roberts finally rapturously unloaded in my backside as his fists rained down on me. This torture almost blew my mind, but inexplicably, I shot the largest load of my life.

After he climbed off me and stood next to the bed, I could not believe how my arse had coped with that monstrosity hanging off the front of him. His cock looked like a log with a giant head the size of a pinecone extended off the top.

“No wonder my arse is numb,” I exclaimed.

With a grin, he crudely joked, “Now you’ll never suffer from constipation again.”

Over the following months, my blackouts and anal assaults became the highlight of my life.  Performing oral sex on him was a waste of time, but fortunately, Roberts loved sucking my dick. Our sessions were always rough and gratifying, and on one occasion, I even lost two front teeth when my gum guard had accidentally slipped out of my mouth.  

Fortunately, my bruises and cuts did not arose suspicion. Everyone just accepted that Roberts was giving boxing lessons.

That minor inconvenience defined my sexual penchant for the rest of my life and I had become a fully-fledged, pain-loving addict and a rough daddy’s boy.