Shortly after I arrived at a small, out-of-the-way, overseas Army outpost, I happened to catch sight of a fellow soldier at the peak of orgasm. He must have thought he was alone in the barracks because he was jacking off in the open showers. His pumping fist caught my eye, causing me to glance into the showers when I walked into the latrine. He was just starting to blow his wad all over the place. His eyes were closed in ecstasy while he pumped out long strings of pure white jism, which sailed outward for impressive lengths. Although it was breathtaking to observe, and his profiled, muscular body, big cock, and bouncing balls were almost impossible to tear my eyes from, I paused only long enough to capture the wonderfully erotic scene securely in my memory. I didn't want to be caught staring. This event, though, became the subject of my very first erotic story, which I wrote down for my own personal entertainment.

I described how he comes into the shower room, naked and already partially erect, anticipating a good, vigorous jack off. How he lathers up his muscular body, spending long, pleasurable moments soaping up his big balls and hardening cock. How he rinses off and preens for himself, proudly watching his now rigid cock gleam in the bright lights. How he finally grabs hold and begins an earnest but rapid jack off, fearful of spending too much time and thereby risking discovery, yet completely enjoying the self-administered, luscious pleasures of the zesty hand-job. And, finally, how he writhes with mind-blowing delight as he handily pumps himself to climax, spewing out those overpowering jets of hot, syrupy, white liquor, which I just happened by chance to watch as they launched themselves into the air and into my memory. Only much later did it strike me that I was accurately describing my own jack off experience.

Nothing was said if you kept a supply of 'girlie' magazines where I was stationed, but gay magazines were out of the question. So, that's why, solely for my own diversion, I started writing about male-to-male sex. I was able to find the time and privacy to write because, once a week, I was assigned the late shift, which meant waiting in an office to handle any emergencies which might arise, but none ever did. I just sat around by myself late into the night, for almost eight hours, with nothing to do. There was an old Underwood typewriter on a desk, and on my very first late shift, after an hour or two of complete boredom, I picked up a piece of paper, slipped it into the typewriter and pounded out, 'Fuck this!' on the old machine. That tickled me. Then I typed, 'Suck this!' That was more interesting. I grinned and typed, 'Beat your meat!' That put me in a serious mood and started my cock hardening in my fatigues. I typed, 'I want to suck cock!'

It occurred to me that typing out a sexy tale and then reading it while beating off, would be very stimulating. I figured I could spend some time writing it, and then go into the privacy of the locked toilet and jack off while reading it. I would keep the story short, limiting it to both sides of one piece of paper, and would have ready an open folder next to the typewriter into which I could quickly slip the paper if anyone happened to come into the office. The process seemed only slightly risky, but the risk, the danger factor, added to my stimulation.

The old typewriter banged out the story noisily. I made a few typos and I needed to change some wording and phrasing, so I had some extra draft pages by the time I finished. But I ended up with the story I wanted. I was fascinated to note that my cock remained stiffly erect, almost agonizingly so, throughout the whole writing process, and it was leaking voluminously. I realized I was spending so much time thinking about sex and envisioning my eventual jack off that my erotic pleasures were multiplied a hundred-fold. I had never before spent hour after hour after hour in such hot-blooded sexual arousal, like this. It was wonderful! My enjoyment was further enhanced by the dawning awareness that I would most certainly be spending long periods of intense self-arousal in the future writing these sex stories because writing this first one was giving me such lusty pleasure.

By the time I put up the Back-in-Ten-Minutes sign and walked into the back-room toilet, I was ready to explode. I tugged out my big, throbbing cock, while watching myself in the mirror above the wash basin. Sticky ball-juice coated the hot, long tube. With an experimental pull, the exquisite sensations of flesh sliding against sticky flesh told me I'd come very quickly. I was hot! A full pump, tip to base, up and down. I was ready. It took less than one minute to read my short description of the jack off scene I'd witnessed, but reading it substantially added to the enjoyment of my own unhurried but impassioned jack off and clearly brought back to mind the scene of that guy beating his big meat in the showers.

Reading the story lifted me to that pinnacle of lust where sight and hearing are lost, breathing stops, muscles tense, and orgasm begins. I experienced one of the best orgasms of my life, spouting cum into the air. Most of the hot jism sailed several feet and landed directly in the wash basin. Some arced down to the tile floor. I pumped until I was drained. It was a great handjob. A very memorable jack off! It was the first of what has become even too numerous to total up as I read my own writings.

I cleaned up, went back into the office, shredded the draft copies of the story, and mixed the pieces into the classified wastebasket, the contents of which would be burned under guard without being examined. I wondered what to do with my story, and finally decided to put it in an envelope at the bottom of my padlocked footlocker when I got back to the barracks. I was confident it would be secure.

For the next three weeks, my envelope of stories thickened by one story per week. Writing became ritualized masturbation. It was so intensive that I often had to jack off more than once in the course of the eight-hour shift. It depended upon on how horny I became, or on how good I was at stimulating myself by the descriptions I conjured up in the current adventure I was writing. And practice was bringing improvement with every story.

Each story was different. One was about a mutual jack off I'd had with a fellow soldier, who was a stranger to me, standing at a urinal trough. Another was about a cock I'd sucked through a glory hole at a military PX in California, before being sucked to orgasm through that hole, myself.

The third story was again about that soldier I'd seen jacking off in the showers. He'd been on my mind right along. And even though it had been the briefest glimpse, his gleaming, cum-spouting, big cock kept performing in my mind's eye. I made up a tale about finding us together in the showers in the empty barracks. I draw him into a conversation about the loneliness of the place and the need to masturbate to keep one's sanity, and he smiles and agrees. One thing quickly leads to another and we both start getting erect. A mutual masturbation begins without really talking about it. We enjoy jacking off together. But, then, I lick my lips and ask him if he's ever had a blowjob. He drops his fist from his long, thick cock and thrusts his hips forward, expectantly, offering himself to me in silent approval. In a flash, I lean over, slowly draw the organ into my mouth and work with his jabs and humps until it is in me completely. Then I suck energetically until both of us come, together, simultaneously. It was one of the stories that caused me to jack off several times that evening while writing it.

An Unexpected Visitor

The writing routine was going along extremely well. But then disaster struck.

One Sunday, three days before my next late shift, I found myself alone in the barracks and decided to reread my stories quickly. I told myself I wanted to be sure I didn't start repeating myself, but actually I was just horny and wanted a little reading material to liven up a quiet afternoon. I unlocked my footlocker and fumbled around for the envelope, but it was not there! It simply was not in the footlocker. Someone had stolen my cache of sex stories! I couldn't believe it! I searched the footlocker very carefully, but the envelope, and only the envelope, was definitely missing.

For a moment I felt panicky. Then I realized that in my concern for brevity I had only used pronouns, never names, and had never put my name to the documents, so were anyone to accuse me of having them or of writing them, I could simply deny it. But their absence was very disturbing. Someone knew what I'd been up to, had read what I had written, and therefore knew my secret. That was extremely upsetting, given the paranoid homophobia rampant in the Army. But I didn't know what I could do about it.

During my next late shift, I found I was too upset and too nervous to write. It was a powerful form of writer's block! The three days since I had discovered the theft had gone by painfully slowly and now I just sat there mindlessly, sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop, or the bomb to explode. But, wouldn't you know it, of course, everything proceeded normally, and the shift turned into its usual dull, boring routine.

At about 22:30, though, the door to the office suddenly opened and a soldier in fatigues walked in. My first reaction was thinking that, finally, there would be some emergency to break the boredom. Then I thought I recognized something strangely familiar about the soldier, but couldn't immediately put my finger on what it was.

I stood up. He smiled pleasantly and asked, 'They call you Jack, don't they?'

I nodded apprehensively; wondering what he was up to.

'I'm Ken,' he said, still smiling. He was very handsome. He seemed to be waiting for some reaction from me. I couldn't quite place him. He wasn't in my outfit, but he could be a fellow from the second floor of our barracks.

Wait a minute! I felt a flash of recognition and a flush of embarrassment. He was the guy I'd glimpsed jacking off in the showers. Christ, what does HE want? I wondered. With my typical coolness in a crisis, I was able only to say, 'Uhh...'

'I owe you an apology,' Ken said with an expression of compassion.

'You DO?' I asked in surprise. 'What for?'

'You just got here a few weeks ago. Myself, I'm a short-timer. I've only got three weeks to go before I ship out, back to the States. Shortly after you arrived, I got real pissed off at you.'

'Really?' But I knew why.

'Yeah. I thought I caught you spying on me while I was taking a shower. I thought you had purposefully sneaked into the latrine to see me naked and to watch me beating my meat. Trying to catch me at it. Wanting to watch me, like some sicko.'

'No!' I said quickly.

'Yeah, I know that now. But at the time I was really pissed off at you. I wanted to find a way to get back at...'

I interrupted him. 'But what made you change your mind?'

Unbuttoning his shirt, he said, 'I found this in your locker.' He reached inside the shirt and slowly withdrew my missing envelope.

I felt my face turn beet red. I didn't know what to say. In a hoarse whisper, I started to ask 'Did you read...' but I couldn't finish the sentence.

'When I read the one about inadvertently seeing the guy in the shower beating off, I realized you were writing about me. Actually, I found what you wrote about me sort of flattering. Then, I understood you had meant no harm when you caught a glimpse of me jacking off.'

I nodded, relieved.

'When I read the others...' He paused. His voice had softened and a cryptic expression crossed his face.

I held my breath.

'...I wished you had gotten here a year earlier!' He laughed, probably at the way my mouth dropped open. 'It sure would have made this boring duty here more entertaining,' he said, rubbing his crotch, lewdly. 'I once wrote a friend of mine that what this place really needs is a good cocksucker!' He grinned, still palming the front of his fatigues. Nodding his head at the envelope he was holding up like a trophy, he asked, 'So tell me, you only write this shit, or do you perform it, too?' He stopped and was looking at me intently. He was serious. He was horny. And I could tell that he was developing a big boner under his clothes.

'But, Ken, how did you get that envelope?' My curiosity had to be satisfied. I had to know.

'I work in Supply. We keep on file in the warehouse the combinations for all the locks we give out. I discovered your name, looked up your combination and found a quiet moment to search your footlocker, and your wall locker, too, by the way, just to see if I could get anything on you. Like I said, I was really pissed off. I don't know exactly what I was looking for. I never expected to find this, though.' He waved the envelope in front of me, but his other hand stayed in his crotch, pressing along a lengthening, thickening, impressively large bulge. 'So tell me...' he repeated, this time with a lewd, husky emphasis.

'Let me hang out the Back-in-Ten-Minutes sign and lock the door,' I said with a grin.

He grinned back.

I led him into the bathroom where I'd been doing so much solo work. By the time I closed and locked the door behind us, I was hard. He reached out, boldly slid a strong arm around my waist, and drew me against himself, pressing his erection firmly against me. I thought I noticed a flicker of surprise as he felt an equally hard erection pressing back. 'Wow,' he whispered softly, 'you are a hot number.

'Umm,' I hummed, 'this feels so good.' I wrapped both arms around him and hugged him tightly. He returned the embrace enthusiastically.

'Man,' he whispered huskily, right into my ear, 'I sure would like it if you'd suck my cock.' He was blunt, but he knew what he wanted and he knew he couldn't waste any time getting it. Sexual contact would have to be fast and frenzied, if we were to avoid detection.

There seemed no purpose to my playing naive or hard-to-get, since we both knew what we were doing was risky. Nothing was to be gained by delay. 'I've wanted to suck that big cock of yours ever since I saw you pumping gallons of cum out of it,' I admitted brazenly, nibbling at his ear as I spoke.

He chuckled with pleasure, moving his head away from my lips, playfully. 'Undress me!' he ordered.

Stripping him down to that great naked body I'd glimpsed in the showers was one of my life's most thrilling, most memorable, pleasures. Each button I popped revealed more of his exciting flesh. Each garment I removed liberated more of his odors and fragrances. Each touch of his hot flesh, however unintentional as I went through the ritual of removing his clothing, sent wave after wave of excitement through me. And the final unveiling, the release of his stalwart erection from confinement, was incredibly arousing, for both of us. The strength of the weapon seemed awesome, its size fearsome! It throbbed with noticeable passion.

'Get naked with me,' he whispered, hoarsely, and watched with narrowing eyes as I stripped for his enjoyment. His excitement was palpable and he could not stop himself from reaching out and touching my chest, pinching a nipple, and feeling me up.

Exhibiting myself for his pleasure was fantastic. I could see his reactions to my nudity and was delighted. My cock throbbed in almost painful stiffness, reflecting his.

'Eat me!' he commanded, yet the words were spoken with a certain tenderness. Ken proved to be the kind of man who loves being loved. He stood, naked and proud, strong legs wide apart, in front of the mirror and watched as I began to lap at his body, adoring it. He whispered lascivious commands like 'Lick my balls,' 'Play with my tits,' and, of course, 'Suck my cock,' all of which I did with relish. I was good at it. And he told me so.

When I finally sucked his cock in slowly and completely, he humped it deeply into my throat as he held my ears tightly, groaning with pleasure and announcing that no one had ever sucked his cock 'so good.' He instructed me to beat my meat but to withhold coming until he could watch. Then he suddenly stiffened and began hosing cum deep, deep into me, fucking vigorously, clamping my ears so tightly it almost hurt. It felt like he was pumping gallons of cum into me, and his orgasm seemed to last an exceptionally long time. I loved it. We both did.

When he finally pulled out, spent but content, he said, 'Now, let's see your fireworks.' He leaned back and looked down. Still in the kneeling position, I stroked my big cock for him, thrusting my hips up into my pumping hand. It took only a few strokes to bring me over the edge. My first blast was a little squirt, but the second was a long string of white cum that sailed well above Ken's head before dropping back onto my belly with a loud splat. The third went to his eye level, and the fourth, too. The rest rose lower and lower until I was oozing the final remains onto my fist. It was a memorable orgasm for me, showing off, as it were, to this soldier, and hearing his complimentary comments as I shot off, while continuing to taste his hot load on my tongue. He said things like, 'Wow, what fireworks!' and, 'Man, look at that load!' Besides loving to make love to him, I liked being with him.

We washed up together at the sink, naked and playful. In the middle of it all, he suddenly became very serious and said, 'Man, you sure suck cock better than anyone I ever met. You're the best.'

I knew this was as close to 'I love you' as I'd ever get out of him, so I grabbed him and we held a naked embrace for a long time. It got us both so hot, again, that we repeated our performances play for play, exactly like the first time, with him standing there watching himself, giving commands, and with me withholding my orgasm until he could watch. Yet, the second time felt even better than the first, for some reason, maybe because we both clearly knew what to expect, coupled with the increased length of time we enjoyed reaching orgasm. It was great!

Ken and I became inseparable during our off hours, and spent almost all of my late shift time together, naked, in that small bathroom. I had hoped he would become more flexible in lovemaking, but he liked to call me his 'cocksucker' and issue commands, standing there for our pleasure and for my services, reluctant to vary the routine. I had had sufficient experience to know that some men are like that, and it didn't lessen my affection for him. He had a great body and let me freely enjoy myself with it, and I was satisfied. But he had warned me from the outset that he was a short-timer, and all too soon the few weeks we had left together had flown by.

The actual moment of parting was more wrenching than I had expected. He made photocopies of my stories and returned the originals to me, telling me that he would spend many happy times jacking off to them and to his memories of me. He gave me his address, said to 'stop by sometime,' but asked me not to mail any stories to that address. I didn't need to ask why.

I jacked off as often as I could in the same spot in the barracks' showers I'd seen Ken doing it. It always reminded me of him, and although I was very cautious to be sure I was alone, I guess I nevertheless kept hoping someone would see me and want to join in the fun. I slipped back into my routine of writing stories and jacking off during the once a week late shift, waiting for something else exciting to come along. After all, it always does!


Jack Sofelot


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