Lance-Corporal Roddy McSpunk was delighted with, and smug about, his seduction of Robin Cooper. As McSpunk would have been the first to admit, he was a successful seducer of men; including some men whom you would never have thought were up for it. One of McSpunk’s more memorable remarks in this context was:
“Eh! It’s only wimps go after wummen: real men like men!”
By that criterion McSpunk was 100% ‘real man’; he had no interest in women. He boxed and wrestled. He worked out with weights. He was sexy and muscular; he was also recklessly brave and constantly took risks. His latest risky venture was in fact having a sexual fling with Captain Robin Cooper; a commissioned Officer who was not in 4 Coy, 5 Para; that unofficial haven for gay macho soldiers. That sex across the ranks was against military law did not worry him at all, if indeed McSpunk had given this inconvenient fact any thought at all. In 4 Coy, 5 Para, it was not widely respected.
The ball was now in Cooper’s court: would he wish to see McSpunk again, or had their fling become in retrospect an embarrassing nightmare? McSpunk was hoping and betting that he would want to; he remembered the surprise, the shock but also the delight, on Cooper’s face when McSpunk had ridden his cock and later fucked him. He would surely recall the mind-blowing sensation of sex with Master McSpunk and, after a few days, or weeks, start to hanker for more.
On the other hand, Cooper – a straight young husband – might well have felt pangs of guilt following his energetic afternoon with McSpunk; especially while having dinner later with Mrs Cooper. It was touch and go.
Watch, wait and see. So McSpunk had waited.
One day Cooper’s message arrived, asking whether McSpunk was free the following Thursday afternoon and, if so, whether he felt like meeting up again? The padded envelope contained a big key, which McSpunk guessed was a copy of the key to Andy, the range-keeper’s hut at Frotton rifle range; Thursday was the range-keeper’s day off, which he invariably spent in town; probably in the pub. McSpunk accepted.
Heh heh. McSpunk, with a big grin, applied for half a day’s leave on Thursday. Richard Finch, with a straight face and without comment, authorised it. It was often hard to guess what, if anything, Richard knew or suspected. Others were less-circumspect.
McSpunk changed into his version of plain clothes: very tight, low-waisted pale blue jeans, fitting closely and snugly round the ass and crotch, beneath which he wore a scarlet wet-look thong. A massive black leather belt with ornate buckle; a close-fitting black sleeveless T-shirt; an ass-skimming black leather bomber jacket – McSpunk had an award-winning ass - and Doc Marten boots completed the ensemble. Finally, he squirted some erotic cologne, a gift from one of his numerous admirers, behind his ears. Over the T-shirt he wore a gold chain with a phallic pendant. Thus clad, and ‘walking the walk’, like the amateur bodybuilder he was, McSpunk strutted out bandily to find his transport.
“Off somewhere nice, sex-god?” said Sergeant Kincaid in his soft Irish brogue. He grinned complicitly at McSpunk. Although it was far from obvious, manly, rugby-playing Patrick Kincaid was as gay as McSpunk himself; he knew exactly how McSpunk was likely to beguile his spare time. Under the circumstances, he could not disapprove. But he would never in a million years have worn McSpunk’s kind of civilian clothes; and as for that horrible phallic pendant… no way. The only good thing about McSpunk’s appearance that day was his haircut: short, neat; parted on the side; a quiff over his forehead and stiffened with gel. His hair was ginger and McSpunk, who did not tan much, had freckles. And his big, boyish grin.
The ‘boy’ was now twenty-two, but did not act it: McSpunk winked at Kincaid and gave a thumbs-up. I’m on my way to a date with a hunky Officer! Wouldn’t you like to know about that, Mr Kincaid? he thought.
“You be careful, Boyo!” said Kincaid.
“What d’jer mean, Sir?” he asked innocently.
“I mean drive carefully; and everything else! Watch you don’t get yourself arrested, dressed like that!
Fuck him. What does he mean by that? That man is too fucking – what’s the word? It was in a crossword last week: ‘intuitive’! That’s it.
This was not in doubt: Kincaid possessed detective skills almost worthy of Sherlock Holmes. They had been used, occasionally, against the insufferable McSpunk, whom Kincaid basically liked, but who often drove him up the wall. Kincaid’s relations with Richard Finch, his immediate superior and platoon commander, were friendly; two tough, intelligent men who worked well together. Exactly how friendly, McSpunk could not decide.
Sergeant Kincaid had no problem with McSpunk in uniform. He was always smart, immaculate; boots shining and maroon beret set at a cocky angle. He could have – and had, in fact – posed for a recruiting poster, grinning as usual. His behaviour, in or out of uniform, was less-immaculate. He had recently used his undoubted unarmed-combat skills on some civilian youths who had annoyed him. They ended up in Accident and Emergency. This had involved Kincaid and Richard Finch in a cover-up operation with the civilian police.
In a borrowed car, McSpunk drove towards Frotton, keeping just within the speed-limit. He sang happily. His theme song, an ear-worm, which he would hum and sing in moments of leisure, was: I'm no ordinary man/ I’ve got an extraordinary plan….I’m a supernatural man! Yeah! Many would have agreed on some of that, although not for the same reasons as McSpunk.
He arrived early at the rifle range; Cooper was not yet there. McSpunk parked his car a short distance away, hidden behind some bushes. He turned the key in the range-keeper’s hut’s door. It creaked open: as on the earlier occasion, the room was warm and stuffy; the coke-stove was still burning and the comforting, masculine smells of creosote (from the woodwork), coffee, fried bacon and the keeper’s pipe tobacco hung in the air. The aroma reminded McSpunk forcefully of his previous fling with young Captain Cooper. McSpunk noticed that, as on the last occasion, the bed had not been made up. A neat pile of army blankets lay on it. Then he had an inspiration:
Let’s give him a fright. McSpunk locked the door. He quickly stripped to his thong. While he was hiding his clothes and boots, he heard a car approaching. This car too parked some distance away; it had to be Cooper. Agile as a lemur, McSpunk swung himself up among the metal roof beams above the room (there was no ceiling). The roof-space was in semi-darkness. He crouched on a dusty girder and waited.
Quick footsteps approached. A key turned in the lock; the door opened. Cooper stood there, looking expectant, apprehensive and super-colossally desirable. He too was in plain clothes this time: fawn jeans, which closely followed the lines of his long, muscular legs; a smart white shirt gaping open to the third button from the top; dockside loafers with no socks.
“Hullo, anybody here?” he said softly, accustoming his eyes to the semi-darkness. He quickly glanced around, but not upwards.
“Gotcha!”
McSpunk swung down from above and wrapped his wrestler’s thighs round Cooper’s neck. Cooper gagged and struggled. Then he blacked out and fell down.
A few moments later, he woke up: McSpunk was kneeling astride him, now completely naked, carefully unbuttoning his beautiful white shirt.
“Roddy, you bastard!” laughed Cooper, rubbing the back of his head.
McSpunk shut him up with a smoochy kiss. He caressed Cooper’s bare, almost hairless, suntanned chest and tweaked his nipples. He then turned to the congenial task of removing his trousers. Cooper laughed as McSpunk unzipped his jeans. Moments later they were in a naked, sweaty wrestling match. Cooper had never wrestled; McSpunk had, often, but Cooper was much bigger than him. He eventually had McSpunk face-down with his arms twisted behind his back.
“Say ‘uncle’!”
McSpunk said ‘uncle’. Painfully he prepared to get up.
“No – not yet. I’m going to take you!”
Cooper deftly and gently bit McSpunk’s buttocks and the loose skin of his scrotum. Then he swiftly rimmed him.
Where the hell did he learn about all this…? He’s supposed to be straight, for fuck’s sake!
Soon afterwards McSpunk was crouched down, face to the floor. His pale, muscular body, now completely naked, was tense with anticipation. His hands were on the back of his neck; ass-cheeks spread. Cooper knelt behind him. To McSpunk’s amazement, the innocent young Captain Cooper now gave him a second rimming, first licking his balls and cock. There was a sudden coolness; Cooper had applied some gel. He rubbed his glans against McSpunk’s asshole.Then he was sliding in. His cock felt massive. McSpunk almost fainted.
To begin with, Cooper knelt behind McSpunk on one knee and began to thrust. But, as he became more excited, he rutted on him on all fours, like a dog. With the exception of his ravishment by Richard Finch in the Babylon Club (See ‘Richard’s Initiation 2’, passim), McSpunk had never experienced anything like it. (He was a top by inclination.) On that occasion he had told Richard that he wasn’t human. Cooper showed every promise of being in the same league. Probably his married life was dull; he was making up for lost time and opportunities. It was a frantic, out-of-control fuck; sore, but it still felt great.
On his side Cooper was emotionally involved, as well as desperate for a man-shag. He had not been able to get McSpunk out of his mind. He loved his boyish manner, his ginger hair and his big, bon-enfant grin; his pale, strong body. His roughness, attack and aggression were a real turn-on. Quite different from women who, in Robin Cooper’s experience, tended to lie there like starfish and expect the man to do all the work. The fact that McSpunk was a worthy opponent, a small ball of muscle, made his complete physical submission more exciting still. He flipped McSpunk onto his back and methodically began to plough him again. McSpunk became very vocal:
“Eh! Steady on! Fuck!! Ye dinnae want tae cum yet. Save yer fucking ammunition for later, Pal! Aaaargh!”
“I got carried away. Shall we go to bed?”
He wants tender young love! Maybe he isn’t getting enough of it at home. Well, I can do that, too! thought McSpunk.
Again, they kissed. This time, it lasted several minutes. Presently McSpunk was lying on top of Cooper, with his legs between Cooper’s, stroking Cooper’s face and kissing him. McSpunk couldn’t move; Cooper was holding his cock firmly in his left hand; he had made a fist round it and was squeezing it. This made McSpunk want to cum, but it also stopped him doing it. Cooper’s other hand rested lightly on the back of McSpunk’s neck. They kissed again. Cooper had turned into a fantastic kisser. He began to stroke McSpunk’s back, getting a little lower each time; closer to his ass-crack. It was clear that Cooper had been taking lessons.
“Where the fuck did ye learn all this?” asked McSpunk when he got his breath back.
Cooper was silent for a moment. Then: “I did some research; I contacted a young man – a gay male masseur – in London. He turned out to be ex-Royal Marines, which inspired confidence. I went up to London for a day; I explained what I thought I needed; and he gave me a good two hours’ worth of ‘tuition’: everything the inexperienced young man needs to know about homo-sex. I really wanted to get it right with you. Expensive, but worth it!”
McSpunk was impressed; Cooper was taking their fling seriously. All the same: “Ah’d’ hae instructed ye fer nothing!”
“But this other guy is a professional. You ain’t seen nothing yet!” joked Cooper.
“He’s no intae S & M, for example, is he?” McSpunk sounded interested.
“Absolutely. Anything goes, within reason! I’ll tell you about that later.”
****
Cooper had been hesitant; he had walked past the block where ‘Darren’ lived more than once. Finally, he had steeled himself to press the buzzer. When Darren opened the door, Cooper was pleasantly surprised to see a smiling, well-dressed and polite young man, who immediately offered him a cup of tea or coffee. For some minutes they sat in the kitchen and talked in an unhurried way about Cooper’s ‘needs’.
“I think I’ve sized you up!” said Darren with a smile. “Strip off now and come through here.”
Cooper stripped to his high-cut blue bikini briefs.
“Take it off”, said Darren firmly. “Now come through!”
Cooper, fully naked, had squared his shoulders and marched through the door into the next room to meet whatever fate Darren had decided on. A few moments later Darren, equally naked, joined him.
McSpunk chucked, imagining the scene.
Suddenly Cooper fell silent.
“Go on!” urged McSpunk. “I want tae hear about the S&M!”
“Shut up. I just heard a vehicle,” Cooper replied.
They listened; there was indeed the sound of a vehicle coming towards them. McSpunk got up and hurried to the dirty small window on that side of the building. He took care not to stand too close to it. He saw a Land Rover draw up and stop. Two men got out.
“It’s stopping. Fucking hell; it’s a pair of Redcaps!”
Redcaps were the Royal Military Police, alias Redcaps, RMPs, MPs or Meatpies.
“Maybe just a routine range inspection?” whispered McSpunk.
“If it is, they should have cleared it with me,” said Cooper. “The rifle range is my responsibility. And they haven’t.”
McSpunk pulled on his g-string, jumped up and hooked his hands over a girder. He swung himself up with no effort, as he had done earlier, so that he was now crouched on it.
“Get yerself up here. They shouldn’t see us up in the roof. They won’t have a key?”
Cooper shook his head: “They shouldn’t. But nor should we!” Now wearing his briefs, he hauled himself up too. They both held their breath and waited.
There was the noise of a key turning; this was not supposed to happen. Then the Redcaps were in the room. One was a Sergeant-Major in early middle age, with short-cropped iron-grey hair. It had obviously been dark when he was younger; his expressive eyebrows still were black. While clearly a hard man, he was not bad-looking; he had a sensuous, smiley mouth. The only odd thing about him was a NYPD night-stick, attached to his belt, which Cooper was pretty sure was not normal issue equipment for the RMP. He also carried a briefcase.
The other Redcap was much younger; a fair-haired Corporal with a fresh complexion. Both Redcaps were in shirt-sleeve order, showing their biceps. Both were clean-shaven. As was to be expected, they both, especially the Sergeant-Major, were muscular.
“Funny,” said the Corporal. “I could have sworn that I heard some noise from here. Maybe even voices.”
“No way. Andy’s never, repeat never, here on Thursdays. Hardly any other guys have a key. I had the devil’s own job locating and borrowing the one I had copied. You relax.”
At this point the Sergeant-Major opened his arms and hugged the fair-haired Corporal.
“It’s all right. Relax, Barry; relax, that’s an order.” He then kissed the younger man’s lips.
“We gonna have some fun here; right, Sir?”
“This afternoon I’m not ‘Sir’ and you’re not ‘Corporal’. My name’s Adam,” said the Sergeant-Major. “C’mon.”
Again he hugged Barry the Corporal; this time for several moments. “We’ll do whatever you like, boy!” he whispered.
Barry murmured something.
“Fine: so that’s what we’ll do. We’ll do whatever you can handle!”
Adam began to strip. He was very neat in his habits; socks inside his highly-polished boots. Shirt and trousers carefully hung on the back of a chair. He was now down to a black jock-strap. Barry was soon in the same state; his briefs did not cover much. In any case the underwear were soon at their feet. Their hands explored and caressed each other. Barry’s hand slipped between Adam’s ass-cheeks. Adam grinned at him. He was hard and massive; despite the slight beginnings of a beer-belly, he was an impressive man, very strong – and McSpunk’s idea of fun. Cooper glanced sideways at McSpunk. As expected, he was riveted; his eyes fixed on the almost naked RMPs; the tip of his tongue protruding, and his hand already between his thighs.
Against all probability, another gay couple had decided on the same day and at the same time to use Andy’s hut for an illicit rendezvous. It was getting more interesting; this was evidently the day of the young Corporal’s initiation into buggery. Hence his nervous eagerness mixed with trepidation.
“This is supposed to be fun,” said Sergeant-Major. If at any time you can’t take any more, just say ‘Stop it!’ and I’ll stop. No need to rush into it. Let’s hug and kiss a bit longer. Relax!” His voice, although lowered, sounded almost as if he were engaging in weapons-instruction. (Today we have naming of parts...)
To be continued.
