This weekend was shaping up to be more than I’d planned. When Mike asked me to take his delinquent son on a boot camp style trip, it was supposed to be simple—just a hard reset. Push the kid to his limits, make him sweat, strip back the bullshit. A week in the wild to break down whatever softness college and modern life had wrapped around him. Teach him what it means to move like a man, carry weight, shoot, fish, and live it rough. No comfort. No excuses. Just discipline, grit, and survival.
That was the promise. But the moment Carl got in my car, something shifted. It was clear the kid was hoping for something more. I was weak and gave in. Giving him what he wanted early. The boy was hungry for it. Fucking him over the hood of my Chevy Impala was impulsive. But this little slut was hungry for me. Wanted a man to take charge of him.
Despite having an ex-military guy for a dad, it was clear the kid hadn’t had someone really take charge of him in a while. He had the muscle, the frame, the restless energy of someone trying to be a man—but he was still looking for someone to show him how. Not just bark orders. Lead. Embody it. Someone to push him past his edge and remake him on the other side.
Mike knew that. Hell, maybe that’s why he asked me.
Because I wasn't his father. I wouldn’t hold back. I wouldn’t coddle. I'd drive him hard, the way real men trained each other when no one else was watching. The way Mike and I used to back in the army—boots in the dirt, cuts on our hands, and no one to rely on but the guy beside you. We lived by that code. And now Carl would too.
But what I hadn’t expected was how much Carl wanted it. Wanted me. The way he looked at me—at the way I moved, the way I spoke—it wasn’t just admiration. There was a hunger behind it. A craving for something deeper. The kind of connection men don’t talk about, but feel in their gut.
And I felt it too.
We reached the trailhead by late afternoon, the Impala kicking up dust as I cut the engine. The woods stretched out ahead—thick, quiet, remote. Just the two of us and miles of dirt, trees, and silence. No cell service. No roads. No help.
I stepped out, stretched, and adjusted the gar between my teeth. Carl got out slower, eyes scanning the treeline. Nervous energy.
“Have you ever slept outside before?” I asked, grabbing my pack.
“Once. Scout trip, years back.”
I smirked. “This ain’t no merit badge weekend.”
He shouldered his pack like it weighed nothing, but I watched the strain. The kid had muscle, but it strained under the load.
We hiked for over an hour before settling on a clearing—flat ground, near water, just enough canopy to keep out the weather. I let him set up his tent, just to see how he handled instructions. He fumbled, but figured it out.
When camp was up, I pulled out a couple of beers from the cooler, tossed one his way. He caught it one-handed, proud of that, like a dog showing off.
“Crack it and take a seat,” I said, gesturing to the log near the fire pit.
He sat. Wide-legged, relaxed—but not relaxed. Aware. Eyes on me more than the woods. He wanted to measure up.
I lit my cigar, sat across from him, legs spread wide. Owned the space. He watched intently. Hoping for something more. Waiting for me to give him permission.
“This weekend,” I said, “ain’t just about getting in shape. It’s about unlearning. You follow?”
He nodded, took a sip.
“You’re not in control out here. I am. You’ll eat when I say. Move when I say. Speak when I let you. And if I tell you to do something, you do it. No hesitation.”
Carl swallowed hard.
“You good with that?”
He nodded again, slower.
“Say it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good boy,” I said quietly, watching the ripple it caused in him.
He shifted on the log, a flush rising in his neck. That twitch between shame and pride. My kind of trainee.
I reached into my pack, pulled out a second cigar, and passed it to him.
“Light it.”
He took it—fumbled slightly with the match, but got it going. Took a deep pull, eyes watching my mouth.
“You remember the rule?”
He exhaled slow. “Obey.”
I smiled. “Obey me.”
He nodded.
And the night settled in—cigars glowing in the dark, fire crackling low, and the air thick with silence, heat, and the first taste of surrender.
I knew after our drive in, he was hoping for a repeat of the action, but was not going to give him the satisfaction. I just let her sit back and enjoy our cigars.
Watching him smoke that cigar, I realized how far the boy had come. This wasn’t new to him. He’d tried this kind of thing before—roughing it, pushing limits—and he was well on his way to becoming the man he wanted to be.
We talked a little, but mostly sat in silence as we smoked at the edge of camp. When we finished, I told him it was time to hit the sack. We had an early morning ahead, and he’d better be ready to move. We each went to our own tents.
Not long after, I heard him fumbling around—probably playing with himself, thinking about what had gone down during the ride in. I called out, “Stop fussin’, boy. Get to sleep.” Not sure if I caught him in the act, but he went quiet quick, and within minutes, I could hear his snoring.
The next morning, I got up early. Made coffee, started packing my tent. The boy was still out cold, probably exhausted. I let him sleep a little longer while I lit my cigar. The smoke drifted slowly and heavily in the cool air.
Eventually, I heard him stir—maybe the scent woke him. I walked over, unzipped his tent, and said, “On your feet. Time to get your arse in gear.” He jumped to attention, clearly scrambling to shake off sleep.
He was naked. I’d seen his cock before, but there it was again—half hard, swinging as he moved. The kid had nothing to be ashamed of.
I sat on a log, cigar in hand, watching as he packed. Gave him a look that made sure he felt the pressure—no slacking. He moved quickly. Once his gear was together, I handed him a mug of coffee and told him to strap on his pack. No breakfast. We hit the trail early to beat the heat.
He followed behind me without a word. It was a hard start—sleep still in his eyes, legs stiff—but he didn’t complain. That earned him some respect.
About two miles in, I called for a break.
“Takin’ a piss,” I said.
Without pause, I pulled out my cock and started pissing right there on the trail. “Better go now,” I told him. “Not many breaks today.”
He did as told—pulled out his semi-hard dick and tried to piss. I could see him struggling to focus, eyes locked on the stream coming from mine. We both stood there, side by side, pissing hard into the dirt, not saying a word—just staring.
When we were done, we put ourselves away. I tossed him a piece of jerky. He devoured it. The boy was hungry in more ways than one.
We continued the hike mostly in silence, though now and then I talked to him about what it meant to be a man. Most of the trail was uphill—gruelling, relentless. He was straining, his body pushed hard, but the boy kept up. I could see the exhaustion settling into his frame, but he never said a word. He didn’t want to seem weak. That silence? That was pride. So I kept him moving, pushing past his limits, making sure he felt every step in his bones.
It was getting close to noon, and I figured it was time for a break, but I wanted to test him a bit more. I knew he was hungry, knew he needed water, rest, and something solid in his gut. But I waited. Let him sweat a little longer.
Finally, we reached a clearing. I nodded toward a fallen log.
“This is good. We’ll stop here for lunch,” I said. “Then I’ll teach you to shoot.”
I tossed him a strip of jerky and cracked open a beer, motioning for him to sit.
“We’ve got a couple more miles before camp,” I told him, “so recharge. You’re gonna need it.”
As we sat and ate, I asked, “Have you ever shot a gun before?”
He glanced at me.
“Tried a few times. My dad always had rifles around. Sometimes he let me shoot.”
I nodded, letting a smile tug at the corner of my mouth.
“Good. Every man needs to know how to handle a gun. That firm, hard steel in your hand—you gotta learn to control it. Feel its weight, its strength. Respect it—but make sure it knows who's in charge.”
I pulled out some empty beer cans and lined them up on a log, then reached into my pack and pulled out my pistol—black, cold, solid steel. It gleamed in the sun, quiet and dangerous. The boy looked at it like he was seeing something sacred.
I raised the pistol, aimed at the first can, and with a calm breath, fired. The can flew back off the log, hit square.
“That’s how you hold a gun—with respect. But you’re still in control. The man commands the weapon.”
I handed it to him. He took it gingerly, turning it over in his hands like it might shatter. I stepped closer behind him—close enough that he could feel my breath on his neck.
“Feel the steel in your hand,” I murmured. “Let it settle into your grip. Own it.”
He swallowed, nodding, eyes fixed on the can.
“Take aim,” I said.
He raised the pistol, but his hands trembled. I moved in, guiding his grip with one of mine, wrapping around his wrist. My body pressed against his back, firm, deliberate. He could feel the heat coming off me. I made sure he could feel more than that—my cock nestled right up against the curve of his ass.
“I need you focused,” I said low in his ear. “No matter what you’re feeling. Right now, it’s about control. About power. The weapon in your hand—that’s all that matters.”
He tried. I could feel him breathing hard, trying to tune out the pressure, the distraction. He pulled the trigger. Missed.
“That’s alright, boy,” I said. “You’re gonna do it again. And again. Until you get it right.”
Still pressed close, I guided his arm, my voice firm and steady.
“Focus. Control. Take the shot.”
This time, he got closer. We kept going. He breathed deep. My breath in his ear, my body against his—guiding him, steadying him. Until finally, the shot rang out and the can flew.
“Good boy,” I said, stepping back. “You’re getting the hang of it.”
He looked hungry. That gun in his hand, the smell of powder and sweat, my body against his—he was charged. But I wasn’t about to give him what he wanted. Not yet.
“We’ve still got ground to cover,” I said. “More work to do. More training.”
And with that, I packed the pistol away.
The boy stood taller now.
And I knew—he was only just beginning to understand what it really meant to be a man.
You could see the confidence building in the boy as we pushed on. His posture shifted, standing taller, more sure of himself. That shooting session had clearly stirred something inside him. He wasn’t just surviving out here anymore—he was starting to own it. The quiet pride in his eyes said it all.
We hiked another five or six miles. He grew more talkative, relaxed. At one point, he even said, “Feels like I’m holding my own out here… like I’m closer to your level.”
That made me grin. I appreciated the spirit. But I also knew better—he still had more to learn. Confidence without respect is just noise.
I kept him moving until he was truly worn down. His stride faltered. His face showed the weight of exhaustion, but he didn’t complain. He was trying to prove he could go as hard as I could. Meanwhile, I was still walking steadily, barely sweating.
When we finally reached camp, I gave him his task.
“Set up your tent. I’ll get the fire going.”
He moved like his legs were made of lead, but he did it—unrolling his gear and throwing his things inside. Then I said, “Now set up mine.”
He hesitated just a second before nodding and reaching into my pack. I watched him closely as he caught sight of the cigars, the pistol tucked in the bottom. His eyes lingered there a moment, hungry. Hungry for more of this life. For manhood. He quietly got to work pitching my tent.
By the time he was done, I had water boiling over the flames. I handed him a bowl of rations—plain, gritty, just enough to keep him going. He took it without complaint, though I could tell he was used to more. That’s part of the lesson.
His eyes were heavy—he wanted to stay up, to be part of the moment, but I’d run him into the ground. His body was done.
“Get in the tent before you fall off that log,” I said.
I heard the zipper close. Within minutes, silence. He was out cold.
The Next Morning
The day started the same as the one before. Routine. Discipline.
He woke to the scent of my cigar again. Coffee was waiting. No questions, no delays. He drank when I told him, ate when I handed him food, pissed when I gave the word. We hiked, drilled, and shot targets again—this time with better aim. He was getting sharper. Stronger.
But something else had shifted, too.
He was becoming bolder, flirtatious even. Shirtless, sweating, throwing glances my way, standing close when he didn’t need to. Adjusting himself when he thought I was watching. He wanted attention. My attention.
Every time I smoked, he watched my lips, my hands, like they held some secret he was desperate to uncover. I saw it—and I let him see that I saw it. But I kept my cool. A man knows how to control his urges, even when it’s getting hard.
I lit a cigar, the smoke curling up between us. He stared, craving it. Not just the cigar, but everything it represented.
“Can I have one, Sir?” he asked, voice soft but hungry.
I looked him over.
“You hungry, boy?” I asked.
“Yes, Sir,” he said, eyes wide. “I’d really love one.”
I stepped in close, holding the cigar between my lips. I drew in slowly and deeply, then exhaled right near him. The smoke danced around his face. He inhaled, slow and deep, eyes fluttering as if he were tasting something more than tobacco. Our lips were close—almost too close.
“You’ll get what I give you when I say you’ve earned it,” I said.
“Yes, Sir,” he whispered. The heat between us was thick now. His body practically buzzed with anticipation.
I took another inhale, his mouth open, hoping. I blew the smoke directly into his mouth, our lips close, almost touching. He sucked in the smoke, eyes closed I could see the desire in his eyes as I blew that smoke i
“I know what you want,” I said. “And I know what it means to give it to you. You don’t get it just because you’re hungry. You get it when I decide you’re ready.”
I reached down, my hand brushing across his lower back, firm and slow, pulling him just a little closer. His breath hitched, his need radiating off him in waves.
“Are you ready for that responsibility, boy?” I asked.
“Yes, Sir. I want to be.”
“Good. Then keep earning it. Step by step.”
I stepped back, took another pull from the cigar, and let the silence stretch. The moment hung between us, charged, unspoken, powerful.
He knew this wasn’t just about getting what he wanted. It was about becoming what he needed to be.
I stepped back, giving him space to take me in, me, standing there with my cigar, the smoke curling slowly around my face like a crown. He stared like he was starving, jaw slack, eyes hungry.
“You’ve been a good boy,” I said, letting the words roll slowly and heavily. “Maybe Daddy’ll give you what you’ve been begging for.”
His breath caught.
I unzipped, pulled my cock out—thick, pierced, still slick from the edge of arousal. I took a long drag from the cigar, let the smoke hang between us, then looked him dead in the eye.
“This is what you want?” I asked.
“Yes, Sir,” he said, barely breathing. “Can I?”
I smirked. “Alright. But be quick about it—we’ve still got miles to go.”
He dropped to his knees like it was instinct, like it was where he belonged. He wrapped his lips around my cock and sank straight down to the base—no hesitation, no gag, just need. His throat opened like it had been trained for this, like my cock was meant to live there.
He sucked slow at first—wet and deliberate, tongue swirling under the head—then built speed, getting sloppy with hunger. My hand settled on the back of his head, guiding him, pressing just enough to remind him who was in control.
I kept smoking, watching him work. The heat of his mouth, the worship in his eyes, the way his hand gripped my thigh for balance—it was all perfect. He wasn’t just taking my cock. He was earning it.
He moaned around me, the vibration deep and filthy. His tongue dragged up the underside of my shaft, and I felt the first pulse of precum leak onto his tongue. He didn’t miss a beat—just swallowed it down like he needed it.
“Fuck, good boy,” I muttered, eyes narrowing as I took another drag from the cigar.
He started bobbing faster, slick and hot, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth as he devoured me. One hand worked the base while the other stroked my thigh, like he couldn’t touch me enough.
I felt the pressure building—balls tightening, heat curling up through my core. I grabbed a fistful of his hair and held him there, buried deep, as I came.
Thick, hot ropes shot down his throat. He swallowed greedily, not spilling a drop, like he'd been waiting for it all day. When I let him up, he licked the head clean, then looked up at me, eyes bright, lips wet.
“Thank you, Sir,” he said, voice hoarse.
I zipped up, letting out a satisfied breath.
“Keep earning it, boy. You’re learning what it means to really serve.”
“I’m trying, Sir,” he said. “I want to be everything you need.”
“You’re on the right track,” I said, taking a final drag. “And there’s plenty more where that came from.”
His grin was flushed and eager, mind spinning with everything that might come next—and I knew he was hooked.
Having given Carl a taste of his rewards, I knew it was time to snap things back to discipline. He was here to be moulded. Earn his place. And rewards? They came only when I said so. I handed him the rest of my cigar—still warm, still wet from my mouth. He took it like it meant something. Like holding that between his lips made him closer to me. And maybe it did.
We threw our packs on again and hit the trail. He walked behind me, puffing the cigar like it was some kind of badge. The air around us was thick with smoke, pine, and sweat. I didn’t say a word, didn’t have to. His posture was lighter. Proud. Like that tiny gesture had lit something deeper inside him.
We returned to the trail, and I didn’t let up. Every step was earned. Every breath, tight in the chest. But I saw it in him—the fire. The respect. The hunger to keep pace, to match me. To become whatever the hell he thought I was.
After Carl had rested and seemed more steady, I decided it was time to set up camp for the night. He looked tired, but there was something different about him—more energy than the day before. Maybe the hard work was starting to sink in.
We followed the routine: pitched the tents, started a fire, ate the meager rations, then cracked open a couple of beers and lit cigars. I handed him one, watching him carefully. This was the moment to get real.
“So, how’s it feeling? This whole experience?” I asked, passing him the cigar.
He looked up, a small smile playing on his lips. “I knew it’d be tough. Didn’t think it’d be this tough. It’s… a lot of work.”
I nodded. “Your dad and I have done this before, plenty of times. Sometimes it’s just about survival, but other times, it’s about something more. A kind of discipline that carries over to everything else.”
He glanced at me, curious. “Did my dad ever… do the same? The harder stuff?”
I smiled, choosing my words carefully. “Yeah. When it was necessary. It’s part of learning what it really means to be a man—knowing your limits, pushing past them. But it’s not just about toughness. It’s about being honest with yourself. Knowing who you are.”
He looked thoughtful, a little vulnerable. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that. About me. I’m not sure how to say it, but… I think I’m gay.”
I nodded slowly. “That’s nothing to worry about. Being a man isn’t about who you love. It’s about how you carry yourself. Confidence, respect, and owning who you are. Doesn’t matter if it’s women or men. That’s the important part.”
He smiled, a little relieved. “I’ve always known, really. But it’s hard. Everyone thinks football players aren’t like that. I’d sneak a look in the locker room. It was confusing.”
I shrugged. “People have their ideas about what a man should be. Screw that. You do you? And if you want to you prove something to your dad or anyone else, do it by being the best version of yourself—not by pretending.”
There was a pause, then he looked me straight in the eye. “To be honest, part of why I wanted to come was to spend time with you. I’ve always kind of… fancied you. Thought about you more than I probably should.”
I gave him a small grin. “I figured as much. You’re not the first kid to feel that way. It’s complicated, wanting to be someone and wanting someone at the same time. But that’s part of what this weekend is for—figuring it all out.”
He looked relieved, maybe even a little hopeful. “Yeah. I want to be a man. Real man. Like you. Like my dad used to be. But I’m still trying to find out what that even means.”
He looked at me closely, his eyes searching—I could see the hunger there, the connection real. Then, tentatively, he asked, “Can I kiss you, Sir?” For a moment, I hesitated; this wasn’t part of the training. But wanting to let him in, I simply said, “Come here.”
I leaned in slowly, pressing my lips to his, my beard brushing against his smooth skin. He started gently, then parted my lips, our tongues meeting with a voracious hunger. This man wanted it badly. I grabbed the back of his head, pulling him closer so we could really connect. He was hungry, thirsting for this.
When I released him, he pulled back slightly but returned quickly to kiss me again, smoke curling around my beard. He watched my lips, eyes wide, then asked, “Do I deserve another reward? I’ve done well today.” He’d listened, really wanted it—and I was conflicted. I didn’t want him to think he could get this whenever he wished. But I wanted it just as badly.
I inhaled deeply on my cigar, then drew him back in with a kiss, exchanging smoke and desire. I wanted him to know I was willing to let it happen. He kissed back, excited by what might come next.
I kept my cigar between my lips as I slipped my cock free from my pants. Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees again, eager to repeat the afternoon’s ritual. The hunger was clear.
He was already on his knees, mouth open, ready. His lips wrapped around the head of my cock like he’d been waiting all day for it—maybe he had. I let the cigar hang from my mouth, one hand steadying his head, the other gripping the base of my shaft as he worked deeper. He gagged once, pushed through it, then swallowed around me like a man starving.
“Good boy,” I growled, low and approving, stroking the back of his neck as he sucked harder, faster.
His mouth was wet, messy, and spit trailed down his chin. I let him find rhythm, then took it away. I gripped his head and started thrusting into his throat, slow at first, then rougher. He choked, moaned, eyes watering as he took it. That moan? It vibrated straight through my cock. I shoved in deep and held it, watching his throat bulge around me.
I pulled out with a wet pop, wiping the slick off on his cheek.
“Turn around. Get on all fours.”
He did without question, dropping down, arching his back for me like he knew exactly what I wanted. His shorts were still halfway on—I yanked them down, exposing the tight, muscular ass I’d been thinking about since we got into camp.
Firm. Smooth. I spread his cheeks wide, cigar still clenched in my teeth, and leaned in. I licked a long, slow stripe from his balls to his hole, circling it, teasing, letting my spit pool there before plunging my tongue in deep. He gasped, then cried out as I fucked him with my tongue, sloppy, loud, wet.
“Fuck—Sir…”
I gave his cheek a slap. “You want more?”
“Yes, Sir… please. I need it.”
I spat directly on his hole, rubbing it in with two fingers before sliding one inside. Tight. Hot. He pushed back onto me as I added another, scissoring gently at first, then faster, rougher. He was moaning into the dirt, trying not to lose it already.
I pressed against his prostate, and he jerked, groaning loudly.
“Oh, fuck—Sir, I’m close…”
“Not yet,” I growled.
He looked over his shoulder, eyes wide and dark with need. “Please, Sir… give it to me.”
I pushed in slowly, letting him feel every inch stretch him open. He whimpered as the head popped past the ring, then hissed as I sank deeper—inch by inch—until my hips pressed flush against his ass.
I let him breathe, twitching inside him.
Then I started to move.
Slow, deep strokes, dragging every ridge of my cock along his tight channel. He moaned with every thrust, hands gripping the ground, back arched just for me. I gripped his waist, then one hand slid up his back, fingers curling around his neck.
He whimpered. “Use me, Sir.”
I lost it.
My hips snapped forward, slamming into him again and again. His ass clapped against my thighs, loud and filthy. He pushed back, matching me, begging with his body for every rough stroke. My cigar burned between my lips, the smoke wrapping around us as I fucked him into the ground.
He was soaked—his cock dripping. I reached under and grabbed it, jerking him as I pounded harder, the wet sound of my balls slapping him matching the desperate groans spilling from his lips.
I felt him tighten.
“Sir—I’m—fuck!”
“Do it.”
He exploded, cock pulsing in my fist, ropes of cum painting the dirt below us. He screamed into the night, body convulsing as I kept fucking him through it. That clench—that final desperate grip around my cock—sent me over the edge.
I drove in deep and let go, thick ropes of cum flooding him, filling him up. I didn’t stop moving, letting every spasm of my orgasm finish inside him.
We both stayed still for a second—breathing heavy, soaked in sweat, smoke, and cum.
Then I pulled out slow, watched the mess leak from his stretched hole. I wiped it up with my hand, brought it to his mouth.
“Clean it.”
He licked my fingers greedily, still panting. I handed him the cigar. “Nothing tastes better than cum smoke.”
He took a long drag, exhaled with a satisfied smirk.
“Thank you, Sir.”
I crouched next to him, hand on his back. “We only need one tent tonight.”
He liked that and nodded. “Thank you, Sir. It’s getting cold. Would be nice to have someone to keep warm with.”
