Marine Prey
Phillips followed me back to the main house. I could feel his presence behind me, hear the heavy footsteps as his combat boots scrunched the gravel walkway between the two buildings.
His eyes were working me over; I knew that. He stayed two steps behind as a subservient Marine would. He knows his place, and believes that he’s earned it. We’ll see.
I’m not certain that I have his full loyalty since we snatched his sons. In his own callous way, he probably loves the boys, but his willingness to sacrifice them leaves me with doubts, and those thoughts usually are telegraphing a warning. Those same signals alerted me to the dark desires behind Bandar’s evil plans for my Marines and for me.
The main house is quiet as we enter; Dr. Dragan is relaxing in his quarters upstairs. I’m thankful for that. The sight of him sucking Ron’s cock left me with a lot of questions to be answered at some point down the line, but not now.
I’ve decided that for the hunt tonight, Phillips will wear his service C uniform. His Staff Sergeant stripes will impress the younger Marines. I will remain in my cowboy rig, since I’m no longer active duty. A lot of young Marines and not-so-young ones who hail from cowboy country revert to their cowboy boots, jeans, and Stetson hats on liberty call, so I’ll fit right in.
Naturally, they would want to look like cowboys, since that’s what they were in civilian life before joining up. I want Phillips to remain an active-duty Marine; it’s the best possible plan. It puts him where I want him to scout out future cum bulls. He can use the base gym and showers, since he works out there and can shop for the best-looking cocks and heavy balls, keeping a list of the ones he wants us to capture for the farm.
Phillips and I moved out all of his uniform and civilian clothing, including socks, jocks, and underwear, sneakers, and his boot collection, him being a boot freak like me. And all of his son’s clothing. Dumped everything in the van with his boys before we headed for the farm.
It’s decided that he will sub-lease his townhouse apartment to anyone who can afford it, probably a Marine officer or high-ranking enlisted man with a family. Either will do.
Back at the main house, I sit down in an overstuffed easy chair, lean back, spread my legs wide. I crook my index finger and motion for him to come over to me, and kneel between my legs. He does.
You deserve a reward, Sergeant; I know that you’re a boot lover like me, so introduce yourself to these Dan Post cowboy boots. I want to watch you suck on the round toe like you sucked my dick last night. Worship them, Marine; you raped them all morning with your eyes, so now’s the time to put your mouth to work, collect your reward for service beyond the call of duty.
‘Yes, sir, boss, I tried to pick up the leather scent this morning when you woke me, but I guess your feet hadn’t heated them up yet, but I can smell the leather now.”
He bends down, both hands lovingly caressing my boots. Then brings his hands up, covering his face. “Ummm.” Looking up at me, he has the biggest smile I’ve seen on his face. He cups the heels in his palms, pulling the boots toward him, then kisses both, humming and sniffing, rubbing his face over my hot leather, as he licks and worships them, like the freak he is.
“Bossman, may I pull one of them off and sniff the inside? Maybe you could rub your socked foot over my face and let me smell it? I love boot socks when they get sweated up.”
Sure, pull both of them off and toss one up to me, so we can get in sync. My Dan Post boots are nicely broken in, and infused with my funk. I often jerk off with my face down in one. And by the way, I’ve seen you wearing a pair of brown Tecovas, the ones with the cowboy heel. And I want to get acquainted with them; you’d look damned good hogtied with those on your feet.
“Yes, sir, boss, anytime you want to lasso me and do your thing, I’m ready”
That day might be coming your way sooner than you think.
“Whatever you want to do to this Marine, I’m eager for it. I would love to replace Russo as your personal slave. I fell in love with you that first night in camp when you were considering me as your hunting partner, but I guess I fucked up and you no longer wanted me to hunt with you; that hurt!”
That’s water under the bridge; things are very different now from that first meeting. I own you now, lock, stock, and barrel, as they used to say in days long ago.
“Yes, sir, I’m your property; you own me, and a man can do whatever he wants with his own property!”
That’s right, drop my boot, get up here, release my pet hog and show it some love.
He obeys and grasps both of my knees, pulls himself up, lowers his face over my bulge, gnawing on my jeans-covered dick when the door to the living room begins to open slowly. Miguel is standing in the doorway with a surprised look on his face.
“Oh, sorry, señor, I should have knocked, sorry.”
No worries, Miguel. Come in, take off your apron, and relax. Are you finished working in the kitchen for now?
“Yes, sir, boss, finished.”
Phillips sits back on his haunches as we watch him walk toward us, removing his slightly soiled white apron. He’s just a little over six feet tall, and in the neighborhood of one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty pounds. Actually, he’s handsome as fuck, has a narrow face, high cheekbones, dark brown eyes shadowed by thick brows and a square chin. A well-trimmed mustache tickles his upper lip. His features are more classic Spaniard rather than the more common Mexican El Indio look typical of many farm workers.
It’s easy to see that he takes care of himself. The loose wife beater he’s wearing does little to camouflage his beefy pecs sparsely covered with brown chest hair. Dark pit hairs leak out; they’re damp. Two man tits stand tall and create small mountains in the fabric. Faded Levi’s, wide brown leather belt, and large silver rodeo buckle highlight the bulge in his crotch, which is becoming more prominent as he moves toward us. The bottom of his jeans covers most of his broken-in brown cowboy boots, a little dust on the toes.
Come stand next to me, Miguel. I think you know what’s going on here, don’t you?
“Yes, sir, señior, I know. My older brother used to do things to me sometimes when he had too much tequila.”
Did you like it?
“Sometimes I liked it.”
When did you like it, Miguel?
“When he put my dick in his mouth and sucked it.”
Take it out and show me. He blushes, a slight trembling smile as he looks down first at Phillips, then to me, and unbuttons his jeans, reaches in and hauls out what looks like a seven-inch soft uncut piece with a large mushroom head peeking out. There’s a drop of clear precum hanging from the tip.
Balls also, Miguel.
“Yes, señor.”
He reaches deeper into his open fly and brings out his heavy balls covered with dark pubes rescued from their jockstrap home. His hand is full. His testicles move as the heat of his palm warms them up. His cock is coming alive in his other hand; the tight overhang retracting, allowing the crown of his penis to emerge.
The proximity of his junk to my face is flooding my senses with his clean, hot pungent male perfume. He points the dickhead at my open mouth. I use both of my hands on his firm ass to pull him forward, taking it in. I close my lips around his rigid weapon and suck while looking up at him. He’s silently watching me service his piece, content to see his boss make love to his dick.
Phillips is busy unbuttoning my fly; it takes some effort, because I’m now as hard as fuck. He finally tugs my cock out and starts to feast on the man meat strangled in his hand. Slurping and sucking, taking my cock to the back of his throat, moaning as the head slips past his gag reflex and my balls slap his chin!
I’m thinking of instructing Phillips on the etiquette of cock sucking; however, my mouth is full of a nine-inch hard Mexican dick, and I’m loving the feel of his hard-pulsating piece sawing in and out of my gullet.
I can feel my balls tightening up to my groin, and my dick getting ready to fire off in Phillips’ mouth.
Miguel gently strokes the back of my head and moans in Spanish, words of love, then yells “me corro!“ (I’m cumming ), and he floods my mouth with his generous offering. I savor his sperm, stirring it around with my tongue to extract all of its flavor before gulping it down as I fire off in Phillips’ mouth, filling him up with my seed!
I keep a tight grip on Miguel’s ass, trapping his hard piece in my mouth, playing with it with my tongue, swooping up stragglers escaping from his piss slit while Phillips gives my dick the same treatment, reluctantly releasing my spent cock from his mouth.
“God Almighty boss, that was some meal sir, thank you, thank you, thank you!”
You’re welcome, Marine. I knew you were hungry for me, and this was part of your reward along with my boots.
“Thank you, bossman.”
And thank you, Miguel; that was quite a huge load.
“You were much better than my brother. Anytime you want me again, just come and get me and I’ll be ready.”
I might want you to stay over one night; is that workable for you?
“Just let me know a few days in advance, and I’m yours señior boss; you suck much better than my wife!”
Thanks, Miguel. I have a lot of practice.
Miguel stuffs his half-hard cock back into his jeans, buttons up, turns, and heads for the door.
“Later, señor.”
Later, Miguel, and thanks again.
Ok, Marine, get into your service C uniform; we’re heading for Jacksonville to pick off a couple of future sperm bulls.
“Give me ten minutes, and I’m good to go, sir.”
I’ll wait for you in the van; be sure to swing by the bunkhouse and grab two sets of handcuffs, a couple of ball gags, and some more rope.
“Gotcha, bossman!”
I go to the van and sit in the driver’s seat waiting for him. Ten minutes later, he emerges from the bunkhouse and walks toward me wearing his short-sleeved khaki shirt, green trousers, and a garrison cover, also known as a piss cutter; it’s flexible and features a distinct fore-and-aft crease allowing it to be flattened and tucked away; it’s sexy as fuck! His black patent leather Bates oxfords complete the picture of a sexed-up Marine Corps poster boy. Only, he’s not a boy, not by a long shot.
He opens the door and slides in next to me and buckles up. “How do I look, sir?”
You look like every faggot’s dream come true, Sergeant. You going commando?”
“Yes, sir, glad you noticed.”
Who wouldn’t notice that trouser snake hanging down your leg? A blind man would notice.
“I’m planning on grabbing some attention when we hit the bars; a Marine always checks out another Marine’s equipment, just can’t help doing it!”
Yeah, you got that right – good thinking – let’s go.
We head off into the warm summer evening with high hopes, intending to hit two or three of the local pubs and clubs that off-duty Marines frequent on the weekends. Hideaway Lounge on Ramsey Rd. has a good following and an outside patio, my favorite for Marine shopping. Archie’s Pub on Lejeune Blvd is popular with pool players and dart enthusiasts, and Dukefields Tavern is also a popular hangout with well-priced beer.
The drive takes over an hour and a half. We arrive at our first stop, Archie’s Pub, and park in the gravel parking lot in back, which accommodates fifteen to twenty vehicles. It’s only nine thirty, not exactly the witching hour, but the lot is full and dark, with scant outside lighting.
We walk in the back door and make our way through the crowd and head for the horseshoe-shaped bar. We order two long-neck Budweisers, chug the ice-cold beer, and scout out the crowd. There’s an assortment of Marines, some in uniform and some in cowboy drag, some in white T-shirts, Levi’s, and combat boots, standing around the bar, talking to each other, trying to be heard over the loud country music. They range in age from twenty-one to men in their early thirties and slightly above, but most fall into the twenty-one range.
The place is jumping. Several video screens are hanging on the walls, playing country music videos, unfortunately lighting up some useful dark corners. There is an indoor smoking ban for bars and restaurants, so smokers hang out, mostly outside in the front. But some in the rear, though not that many, since it’s dark and not well lit.
Phillips catches my eye and nods toward a handsome young blond Marine; his back is leaning against the bar, elbows resting on it; a few men separate us. His cream-colored straw Stetson sits on the bar behind him. He is wearing a red, white, and blue striped rodeo shirt, opened partway down the front, and brown, blunt-toed Double H cowboys working boots. It’s easy to tell that this young Marine is from a ranching family because the boots are well broken in.
The gold wedding band on the third finger left hand tells a familiar story. Married young and regrets it. He checks out every woman who walks past him, some giving him a come-on glance, probably hookers.
There is a sizeable bulge in the crotch of his jeans; his large silver belt buckle catches my eye and demands my attention, which immediately drops down to the bulge. I pick up my long-neck Budweiser, walk over, and insert myself between the cowboy and the older Sargent, who is paying him no attention.
Pretty good crowd tonight, huh?
“Yeah, not bad, better than last weekend with nothing but losers, hookers, and fat chicks.”
Turning toward me, he offered his hand. “Lance Corporal Spencer Dillon hailing from Laramie, Wyoming. Who might you be, stranger?”
No shit, from Laramie? I’m Master Caulfield from Cheyenne.
“Master, huh, who hung that tag on you?”
My mom named me after some movie character she liked, I think.
“That’s the kind of handle that could get you into some hot spots if you’re not on your toes.”
You got that right, cowboy; I stay vigilant, because it already has – ha, ha.
My dad and I own a small spread, just ten thousand acres (A lie). I’m a former Marine Staff Sergeant, MP. Small world, huh? I got out after twelve years; decided I wanted to try out the civilian world again. But I’m at the Naval and Marine Reserve Center in Raleigh these days; two weeks of training each year and one weekend a month gets the job done.
“What else do you do the rest of the time?”
I own and operate a dairy farm in the hills about two hours from here.
“No kidding – can’t stay away from the livestock, huh?” Big shit-eating grin.
No, sure can’t; in fact, I’m here to bring back a few head this weekend.
“Auction?”
No, private sale; I’ve already made my selection.
“Fast work, it’s only Friday. You gonna haul ‘em back to the farm tomorrow?”
No, actually, my partner and I are going to take them home tonight if all goes well.
He’s looking me up and down now, showing a little more interest. “Watch my beer for me, would you, Master? I need to water the lilies, be right back.”
I zero in on his tight Wrangler ass as he walks away from me, making his way through the crowd headed for the john. His tight cowboy ass is calling to me, loud and clear. Phillip watches him leave and comes over to me with something in his hand. Something small and unseen.
“Sir, I told you a lie about the GHB pills, sorry about that, sir. My Marine pal actually gave me four pills, not two. I was saving them for a special occasion, and I guess it don’t get any more special than this; the kid’s a fucking knockout. Are we going to take him?”
He hands me one of the pills, and I drop it into Spencer’s beer to dissolve before he returns.
What do you think?
“I’ll help you get him to the van when it hits him. But I’ve got a candidate too, a Marine Sergeant, Dan Williams. I used to work out with him. He’s a competitive bodybuilder, about thirty and hung like a horse; I should know. He spotted me enough times on the press bench for me to look up his workout shorts, and check out his equipment; it’s gotta be a ten-incher, sir, and that jockstrap is full of heavy balls – don’t even ask!”
Good work, Phillips, but let’s handle my Lance Corporal first, then deal with your bodybuilder; he might be more of a challenge, but we can handle him.
“That sounds like a solid plan to me, boss.”
I spot Spencer working his way back through the mob. He has a large, round wet spot in his crotch; there must have been a long line queued up for the urinals. The three beers he had before we arrived couldn’t wait.
He arrives and stands next to me. Places one of his feet on the boot rest. Turns his handsome face toward me. The blond high-tight-cut and the slight bangs highlight bold facial features. Square jawline, chin with a small dimple, high cheekbones, and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen on a human being. They look like the blue skies of Wyoming at sunrise.
He lifts the doctored beer to his lips and downs a big boy gulp, his Adam’s apple moving with each swallow. I watch him down the remainder as he continues to check out the pussy milling about looking for an easy mark, which he isn’t.
I move my boot next to his on the footrest and nudge it. He smiles, checking out the dark chest hair showing in the opening of my western shirt. I unbuttoned my shirt down three snaps before he returned from the head.
How about I buy you another beer, Spence?
“Yeah, Spence, that’s what they call me back home, he slurs, but I don’t need another one right now, feeling a little lightheaded.”
Let’s get you outside for some fresh air; my van is in the parking lot. He pushes himself away unsteadily from the bar, grabs his Stetson and drops it on his head, pushes it back a little, as I wrap my arm around his narrow waist and guide him toward the rear door.
“Fuck, Master, I don’t feel so good. Thanks, man.”
No worries, pal, old Master will take good care of you; just try not to fall. The toes of his boots are dragging in the gravel as I lead him toward the side door of the van. Phillips is standing there with handcuffs hidden behind his back. No one is in the parking lot to see; it’s dark as midnight.
“Who’s he?” Indicating Phillips.
Don’t worry about him; he’s Sgt. Phillips, my dairy business partner.
“Oh. Ok.”
Get in and lie down; the deck has a nice thick carpet where you can rest for a bit.
“R-e-s-t. Yeah, rest.” He mumbles and collapses to his stomach, out cold.
Phillips hands me the cuffs. I pull his hands behind his back and secure them, setting the lock so they don’t tighten when he moves around; then I pick up a long length of rope placed there earlier and cross his ankles and bind his boots together, push them back and attach the boots to his cuffed hands, hogtying him. Phillips works the red ball gag into his mouth and buckles it behind his head.
“Good work, boss; he is an excellent choice. He’ll be out for hours.”
Thanks, champ. We’ll keep an eye on him and make sure he’s ok. Right now, I want to get a closer look at your choice. He looks like a challenge to me and is going to take a coordinated effort to take him, so let’s get back inside and check out our next potential sperm bull.
“Yes, sir, I have another GHB pill with his name written all over it, so let’s proceed with caution.”
That is the idea, Phillips.
We head back inside and leave our sleeping Lance Corporal to his dreams, safe and sound.
The body-building Sergeant is still where he stood when we exited the bar with our drugged Marine. We go over and position ourselves on each side, then Phillips starts the conversation.
“Sergeant Williams, how the hell are you, man?”
“Doing great, but haven’t seen you at the gym for several weeks. How’s it going, dude?”
“Doing well, just pulled a hamstring a few weeks back, so I’ve been taking it easy, letting things heal; otherwise, just keeping on keeping on. Damn bro, you’re looking like Atlas man. Getting ready for a competition?”
“Nah, just trying to keep in shape for the fall competitions, starting in September.”
“Well damn bro, you do look ready.” Phillips, turning slightly, gesturing to me standing on his right side. “This is former Staff Sergeant Master Collins, my good pal.”
Dan Williams threw out his hand and took mine in a bone-crunching handshake. “Any pal of Phillips is a pal of mine, good to meet you, man!”
Same here, Dan, and just call me Master.
“Dude, your name carries a lot of baggage with it. Isn’t that a challenge sometimes to back up?” A smart-ass smile played across his face, typical for a hard-assed Marine like him.
It is, but only when it comes down to a man who knows he belongs on the bottom and is trying to cover up his vulnerable nature.
“You mean, like some of the faggot Marines who hang at the gym and eyeball my crotch when I’m trying to get in a full workout?”
Yeah, something like that, I suppose; you never know, right?
“Oh, I fucking know when I’m turning on some Marine who wants to put the make on me, they can’t keep their eyes off of my ass and crotch, and my sweaty sneaks, makes me want to crack some heads, the mother fuckers!”
Dan, let me buy you a fresh brew and a couple for us.
“Hell, yeah bro, thanks, I’m running low here, but I gotta hit the head and drain all of this stale beer.”
The head might be full, so take your time; we ain’t going anywhere soon. Williams adjusts his monster dick trapped in his tight Levi’s 501s, the cuffs touching his combats, and heads for the john.
“Sir, do we want to take this homophobe asshole?”
Oh, hell yes, Alex. I want to get him up on the St. Andrews cross and teach him some manners. Take a look at my dick, man; it’s hard as fuck and leaking like a faucet with the prospect of taking him down many, many notches and milking that big piece of his and draining those huge balls. Drop the pill in his new beer so it can dissolve before he returns.
“Sure thing; here it goes.”
He drops the pill in and watches it drift to the bottom of the bottle.
“Did you get a good look at those biceps, pecs, and lats, boss? And it’s all natural, no steroids; he’s a fanatic about staying clean, which means his nuts are not shrunken. And also, big because they’re full to overflowing, just what we want, right?”
That’s exactly correct, my man, and those two muscled-up ass mountains are crying out to my dick.
Williams returns, adjusting his dick hanging commando, and like the Lance Corporal, couldn’t wait for the urinal and pissed himself. A sizeable wet streak running all the way down to his combat boots, and probably inside wetting his socks with piss.
The fucker is brutally handsome, and he knows it. The five o’clock shadow highlights his masculinity. The dark stubble can’t hide a face that wouldn’t look out of place on the Hollywood set of a western, and those dark brown eyes look like deep, threatening pools filled with danger.
He’s chugging his cold, drugged brew like a thirsty water buffalo; it’s working fast, and he’s beginning to lean first against my shoulder, then Phillips’. He starts slurring his words, having difficulty getting them out.
“Dan, let’s get you some fresh air, bro; you look like you could use it.” Phillips yells over the loud music.
He nods his head in agreement as we each grab him under his pits and guide him out the back door to the parking lot and our van. His pits are wet and smell like a man who doesn’t shower every day and certainly uses no deodorant. I’m lightheaded from his pit stink and would love to feast on them and his manly asshole, but all in good time. First, we need to get him bound and back to the farm.
We literally have to drag him to the van. The toes of his combat boots leave a deep trail in the gravel behind him as we muscle him to the van and slide the door open. His chin, by this time, is touching his clavicles. The big tough Marine is dead to the world.
With some difficulty, we lift his six-foot-plus, two-hundred-and-ten pounds of solid muscle into the van next to Spencer. Deposit him on his stomach, cuff his hands behind his back and rope his combats together, push them back until the heels touch his hard ass, and tie them to his cuffs. Phillips forces a red ball gag into his mouth and buckles it behind his head, then puts loose burlap over both heads.
We grab each other in a tight bear hug. Alex’s lips find mine, and we snog a wet, sloppy kiss out in the dark evening air, not caring if anyone sees us or not.
Ok partner, let’s haul our livestock back to the farm and join them up with the herd. Tomorrow we milk them.
End of Chapter 12
Rex Larsen
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