 |
|||
|
|
On Duty 2
By Emile 2010
Usual caveats apply
---
Pedro's nutsac swung low and heavy like a cowbell, swinging as the plane lurched this way and that, climbing high in the sky. The young colt's bloated ballbag had always dangled like a peach in a leather bag, a low hanging fruit, ripe for a firm grasp and tug. The baby smooth honey skin, taut from the heavy stretcher that encircled it, tingled at a touch, his arsehole puckering up and nads aching at the slightest pressure. So now, as the plane jerked and weaved, it was pure agony for Pedro, his nutbag swinging wildly before smacking against the pilot's first clenched on the retracting controls. Usually his meaty dork would hang down, the skin hooded mushroom head weighing down against his churning babymakers, keeping them from hurting too much, but hard and leaky like this, still burping precum from his wife's aborted blowjob, the bobbing brutaliser provided no help, the purple helmet being buffeted itself by unwanted prying hands. The pilot loved it when he was exposed like this, angling out the base of his palm,] so the gonads slammed on the bone of his wrist. Pedro let out an involuntary cry, trying to lift himself higher off the control pad, away from danger, although the position only made his nuts swing more.
Seeing him arching back and clawing at the ceiling, the general offered to help the 'gabacho', grabbing a wrist and pulling his brawny arm tight towards a hand hold above the door. The pilot matched his actions effortlessly, until they had both pulled Pedro's arms impossibly wide, tugging at his sculpted shoulderblades, each man looping the hand-hold around Pedro's wrist to keep his arms cinched high and wide. The position lifted him off the control panel alright, into a half crouch position where his thighs cramped terribly, his only source of balance. To keep his precarious position straddled on the wide panel, he had to thrust his arse backwards now, exposing the tender hole to the crew of grunts behind him. Now his position was much worse - not only was the gaucho's low hanging fruit dangling helplessly between his legs for any of the grubby men to fondle, but his precious hole was winking at them, begging to be violated. In front, the pilot and general moved on to his pouty nipples, ripples on the smooth stretched pecflesh making the nubs seem like brown liferafts on a sea of plucked flesh. And the general liked nothing more than plucking men from the sea. The pilot meanwhile told him that if one drop of sweat from his stinking pits fell on him, there'd be hell to pay. It would be difficult, as the grunts in the back were already beginning to fondle his arse, and a cold sweat was coming over his body.
"Spread your legs wider gabacho" the general grunted, tugging on his tethered nutsack to emphasise the point. His thighs were straining and bare feet already braced against the seats. There wasn't much further he could go. Still, the general manouveured his hand, turning his two middle fingers into a hook and punching them into his arsepucker, literally pulling him down. Now his fat cockhead grazed the flight controls as the pilot shifted his hand, something he helped by rolling his fingers back and trapping Pedro's foreskin, rolling it over the controller, docking Pedro with the machine, stretching the flesh and tugging his delicate glans even closer to the rough gear casing. Every move was agony now, and between the tugging fingers of the general and pilot, his package wouldn't be the same again.
Pedro closed his eyes and tried to mentally retreat back to a happier time, before he enlisted. But the hands fondling his nuts and buttcheeks made his thoughts turn to his first experiences with the army instead. He remembered the day when the recuiter had first come to the village. He was only just 19 then, the age of the pilot now fondling him so roughly. Back then, he was a hardened gaucho cowboy with dirt caked on his wiry muscles turning his dark olive skin the same hessian brown as his ragged hand-me-down clothes. He was still a little cocky then - despite being dirt poor, sore from hard work and worried about his kids future, he was still proud - of his beautiful demure wife, of being a respected young man of the village, and of his handsome latino looks, which he accentuated by grooming his six-o'clock shadow into a stubbled circle beard. Maybe it was vanity, but the thin sides accentuated the broad creases of his smile, and like all the other men in the village, he felt this hint of their masculine hairy body beneath was a badge of honour every latina lusted after, like his muscles, and his big-cock swagger.
But in truth, life was tough, and he was less confident now than ever. His wife had just missed her second 'monthly', and they knew she was pregnant again - the second in two years. They had married at 17, just out of school, and dreamed of losing their virginity to each other on their wedding night. She was a good catholic girl, and in their whole courtship she had only wrapped her fingers around his bloated dork twice, massaging the tight sleeve of skin back from the head and giving him an exquisite slow handjob. She said she felt dirty after, perhaps because he really pumped and leaked as he built up to shooting, and made a gutteral roar as he spattered his own hairy chest with ropes of thick greasy jizz. So on the wedding night, unprepared, his thick cuntbuster had really been difficult for her to take, and things had not quite gone to plan. Even though he was so stiff the skin was shiny, and the hood fully retracted, revealing his pulsing pisslips, he'd remembered to go slow, for her sake, feeding the monster with tantalising slowness. Even so, he was barely in when she began moaning, then screaming, just as her snatch began squeezing his head properly. It was too painful she said, and he had to pull back, leaving her hymen intact, and his own throbbing dork unsatisfied.
He had prepared months for this moment, even held off the occasional tug he usually resorted to when the need was too great, and the ache from his swollen balls was intense. After she fell asleep, he lay there for hours, under their fresh new sheets, a layer of sweat clinging to his rugged body, toes curled and arms gripping the headboard, biceps flexed in frustration as his flesh cigar throbbing against the sheets, staining the white cotton with the watery cream leakage of his precum. Still, he held off, hoping the next time they tried she would slowly take him in. And they tried again, and again, each night, until his thighs were cramped holding himself over her, trying to feed his fat python into her tight snatch, each time her screams forcing him to stop, yet it was painful for him as for her, just as the head began stretching the membrane, because of the inevitable blue balls that followed. Eventually Doctor Vargas had to open her unusually thick hymen surgically, and while she was unconscious at the time, she complained for days afterwards of the pain. Three months had gone by, before he was able to finally thrust his blunt pink head into her snatch, and yet it was still sore, and he had to be gentle, coaxing, and stop when it was too much pain - only moments before he could come to resume his now familiar position spreadeagled taut and sweaty, willing his clenched nuts to to stop sending waves of fuckneed to his drooling dork and across his body.
Eventually, she had adjusted to his unusually thick dong, and he fucked her often and hard, until the itching need to fuck was all consuming. They tried the rhythm method, and to scoop out the cum, but as sure as day followed night, she soon fell pregnant. Once she was sure, they stopped having sex, for fear of the baby, and while he loved his pretty wife and her blessing, he secretly loved fucking her more, and was driven mad by the pleasure being snatched away from him. Now, only months after giving birth, she was pregnant again, and not only would he have to go horny and unrelieved all over again for seven months, but he had no way to feed the four of them on his meagre wage.
So when the recruiter rolled in, it was a memorable day. He wore a crisp new uniform, bright and shiny buttons and a professional looking cap, not like their weatherbeaten straw hats, and he had a smile and posture that said his life was easy and well fed. He told the young men that the army would pay nearly double what they could earn from selling their crops - more enough to buy what they no longer grew, and all they had to do was serve their country. They knew there was a war on, a drug war, where good men died honourable deaths, and accepted the discipline needed to pursue the fat drug lords. Even if it meant a military haircut and the loss of his goatee, this would make him a man in his bride's eyes, and put food on the table they desperately needed. With three other childhood friends, Pedro signed up, and barely an hour after the military truck had rolled into the village, it rolled out again with them onboard.
Things had not gone right from the start, and although Pedro realised it now, his first mistake had been his biggest. When they had arrived, they unloaded the hot, sweaty men from the truck, herding them into the supply tent for their kit. As poor farmers, they didn't get bright shiny uniforms like the recruiter (now long gone to fetch new recruits), but old weatherworn clothes from troops long gone. The clothes rough and were ill fitting, baggy in some places, scratchy in others. The barber's tent was no better - blunt blades made for painful scraping shaves and their buzz cuts were more hack jobs than military standard. Their new troop leader introduced himself, and made them line up for the general's inspection, before they began their induction. Ten minutes, fifteen, then half an hour past, in the blazing sun, until rivulets of fresh sweat joined their grungy man funk under the suffocating clothing. Finally, General Sanchez arrived, joking and chatting to his compadres without the least care for their long stand to attention. Finally he came over, inspecting them casually, while puffing on his cigar. His eyes barely grazed over Pedro, a brief flicker of recognition of a handsome face, before Pedro piped up, seizing his chance. "Excuse me General" he said, before the training officer had a chance to stop him. The general swung around, facing him, and puffed away, indulgently indicating for him to continue. "Uh, we were told in the village that we would be special troop for the army, be treated well, and get money for our families, but since we arrived, no-one has taken our names, our clothes are old and uncomfortable, and we had to stand here in the sun...." The training officer shrugged at the general, who smiled broadly. "Ah, I see. Special troops you say. Obviously there has been a terrible mistake - now I see you properly I can tell." He turned to the training commander. "Officer, this man and his fellow villagers clearly belong in the special unit. Make sure they are taken there immediately!". And with Pedro's misplaced thanks echoing over the parade ground, he marched away puffing on his cigar like an all powerful steam train. Pedro would learn just how powerful and immovable the general could be, in time.
---
A hard tug to his denuded ringed ballbag brought him back to reality. General Sanchez had grasped his precious sack in his fingers, and tugged down hard. "For this assignment, your jewels will need to be much larger and lower hanging than this" he barked. "We want to make sure you will be an object of his special attention." The grunts in the rear laughed loudly. One took the general's distraction as an opportunity to stand up and haul Pedro's face down, so he faced the troop's cheesy cock as it hung out of his uniform. Soon the general's words were supplemented by the sound of Pedro's mouth suctioning on the head, as the grunt grabbed his head and forced him down on the throbbing dork. They loved fucking his face, especially since the one place the general had allowed hair to grow back was his precious goatee, and they enjoyed the feeling as it tickled their nutsacks when they facefucked balls deep. "Once we get back to base, you will report to the surgeon's Special Mess for enhancements. He has been briefed what to do." The pilot stopped stroking his throbbing hard meat to bring the chopper lower as they readied to touch down. The Special Mess. A shiver went up his spine at the thought, and his mind spun back again, to those first days in the Special Unit, where he had consigned his fellow villagers to similar fates.
|
|
|