Man-Sex Mind Control

From: James Diamond

Picture: Kent

Published in: Indulge, March 2001 (issue 60)

But with instincts I never dreamed he had, his tongue drilled at the sensitive skin just under my cock-head, and the bastard drove me into madness.

____


1.

I pinched myself. Fuck, am I dreaming? Nope, my jack-off fantasy was coming true: the hunkiest stud in the U.S. Marine Corps crouched before me with spread legs, begging me to sink my dick into him. I was so excited, I fell all over myself, stuttering and clumsy, but my cock knew how to get hard. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Yes, a big, gonzo gyrene wants me to fuck him. Doggy-style. And he's sober.

Nobody told me graduate school could be such fun!

The big sergeant gritted his teeth but couldn't stop himself. The pupils of his blue eyes gaped hyper-wide like a drug addict's, but I knew better. The man was going through a major psychic struggle: physical desire fighting social conditioning.

Out of control, he reached back to help position my cock at his asshole, and as I moved between those big legs, sweat streamed down his face. He fought against himself--trying not to enjoy it. Professor Graflix, thank you a thousand times!

I bent my face down to kiss the big Marine and pressed my rubber-covered cockhead through the barrier of his sphincter as our lips met. Poor guy, even his tongue betrayed him. It lashed at mine as my throbbing civilian pecker drove deep into him. Sweat and pre-cum greased my way in, and in a few seconds I had him skewered to the hilt.

When I broke the kiss, he grunted in a forced voice, "C'mon, you bastard. Fuck me. Fuck me, man. Fuck me to death!"

Hey, I can take orders! I let myself go, but fucking that guy was like sex with an M-1 tank. He was no passive hole. With every stroke of my dick into his guts, he writhed and struggled, undulating under me, bucking like a fucking bronco. His face was a mask of rage and frustration--but never did he struggle away from my pile-driving cock.

When I let loose in him with a gallon of sperm, his body was in ecstasy. It made him groan with pleasure. The man got off on being fucked. Who in hell would have dreamed Gunnery Sergeant Tom Checkitt was an enthusiastic bottom?

He was tall and in fabulous shape: bulging pecs, washboard belly, massive shoulders, brutish biceps and arms--like a uniformed Schwarzenegger or a *semper fi* Ventura. He could easily get jobs posing for bodybuilding magazines, and below the waist, he was an All-American hero. His cock was huge.

First time I saw him in a jock-strap, I wanted to go down on him. At that time, though, he would've turned me into a hamburger patty in the middle of the dressing room floor. The big man needed preparation by The Machine.

# # #

2.

Who knew? The whole thing started out as the graduate project from Hell.

My program director specified a biotech device as part of my doctoral dissertation, and he assigned me to Professor Ernest Graflix. The nerdish prof had a hush-hush project sponsored by the CIA, a mind-control weapon. Dr. Graflix was working on a device to interrupt brain waves and rechannel them--to make enemy soldiers turn their guns on themselves and commit suicide.

I'm serious. Scientists have known for many years that radio waves of specific frequencies cause behavioral changes in mice. The CIA wanted to make radio waves into a weapon, so they set up Dr. Graflix in a top-secret laboratory with unlimited operating funds.

Dr. Graflix needed a gofer, and that's where I came in.

The job started out boring-cleaning mouse cages, giving shots, adjusting the wave generator, sweeping floors, and so on. At first the experiments were the usual failures--no mice did anything slightly aggressive or suicidal. Then the early failures became constant failures. Days, weeks, and months went by, and the mice still looked up at us with questioning looks, fell asleep, or died of old age. Not a single one committed suicide--or even looked depressed.

And since I couldn't finish my dissertation without data from the project, my whole life dangled on Hold, waiting for something to happen in radio-wave Mouseland. Damn, why didn't I become a C.P.A.?

One late Thursday night something interesting finally happened: after failure number 3537, we tried a new filter, alternating in a certain megahertz range, and we noticed the mice began to hump each other--the males on the males. Well, now, isn't that interesting? And the experiment was repeatable. The little mouse-studs started laying each other every time we turned on the machine.

"That's just great," said Dr. Graflix, pouring himself a drink of grain alcohol in a chemistry beaker. "We'll have a machine to make enemy soldiers fuck each other to death." Poor Doc Graflix. The "Machine" would not make a terrorist soldier cut his throat with his own scimitar, but we could use it to make porn movies for rodents.

The mouse-orgasmatron, though, tweaked something inside me. About the time I started working with Dr. Graflix, I attended a boxing match between the U.S. Army champion and the top Marine. I'm not into physical combat--I went to Fort Monroe just to watch the athletes. I like male physiques, and both men were great physical specimens. But the Marine was fucking unbelievable. He wasn't really bigger than his opponent, but damn, I never saw a man so perfect, so faultless. With every move, every punch, every duck-and-cover, I saw the physique of a Greek hero. Gunnery Sergeant Tom Checkitt stood six-foot-six and around two hundred and seventy-five pounds, a real monster; but every muscle, every bulge, every hard angle was perfectly to scale. He was a huge, tanned superman, one hundred percent masculine even in his facial features--not handsome. He was ugly in a manly way, grim and hard-featured. He was totally male in every sense of the word.

Damn, did he make me horny.

Gunnery Sergeant Checkitt won the bout and the heavyweight championship. He also won the lead role in all my jack-off fantasies from then on. Night after frustrated night, his ugly face and body floated above me as my good right hand pumped me to Valhalla. I ached to meet him, to shake his hand, to hear his voice, to follow him into the men's room and watch him piss. After that first sight, in fact, I found out the schedule of Checkitt's boxing competitions, and I was ringside for every bout.

As months went by, I spent all my time with Dr. Graflix and his mice, and I had no sexual outlet. My only recreation was watching Checkitt the Marine in his boxing matches. I would have loved to meet the guy, but reality set in: Hell, he's probably straight. If he's not, he'll have a boyfriend, and on top of that, he probably hates nerds and intellectuals.

Dr. Graflix fell against one of the tables, sending beakers and bottles crashing to the floor. "F-f-failure," he slurred, gulping more pure alcohol. "They're gonna end da project ... Gonna come an' ... throw us inna street!"

I took the beaker from his hand. "Dr. Graflix, this is just another little setback. Don't you think Eli Whitney had setbacks when he invented the sewing machine?"

"Eli Whitney ... 'vented the cotton gin."

"Oh, yeah, right. Well, how about R.C.A. Victor when he invented the phonograph?"

Graflix looked at me with bleary eyes, and before he could say anything, I blurted, "Tell you what, Doc--you need a vacation. Why don't you just go on home and take it easy for a while? Heaven knows you've got some time off coming. Come back after you've unwound for a week or so."

"Y'know, ya fuckin' right," he muttered. He yanked down his coat from the rack, pulled on one sleeve, and stumbled out the door.

When he was gone, I took a deep breath. Now, let's see ... Maybe the machine won't make a soldier cash in his own chips, but with a little adjustment, would it make a Marine play strip poker? I have one week, maybe two.

I rolled up my sleeves, reset the calibrations, and started the experiments again. I worked day and night, ordering pizza deliveries, swilling Coca-Cola by the case, and foregoing baths. I stopped sending out progress reports--the CIA would not be interested in a machine to turn soldiers into rutting Chippendale dancers.

After nearly two weeks, I was exhausted. Nothing had worked. Every experiment failed. The mice still fucked under the blue light, but nothing else was a success. Graflix was due to come back any day.

Finally I gave up and dived into the grain alcohol myself. "One lash eshperiment," I said to the gay little mice, "an' I give up man-sexsh and Marinsh forever!" As I was about to throw the switch for the last time, a burly security guard pushed open the door of the lab.

"Hey, Doc," he growled, "Henson in Accounting says he ain't got no reports from ya in a long time. He wants me to tell him what's goin' on in here."

I looked at him with bleary eyes. What the hell, why not? I aimed the machine at Joe Palooka. The pale blue light fell on him, and he blinked, a deer blinded by the headlights. "Hey, whatta ya doin' ta me?"

His eyes glazed over, and his mouth pulled up into an evil smile. His hands dropped to his belt, undid it, and pulled open his pants. He yanked down his Jockey shorts and fetched out a right nice dong. Stroking it, he stared at me with undisguised lust. Then he turned his back, bent over, and spread his legs. "C'mere, Doc," he grunted, "and fuck me!"

Damn, now that's a nice ass. My dick was hard, in seconds my pants were down, I unrolled a safe over my throbber, and--*oooomph!*--I sank every inch into the guard's winking asshole.

I remembered my manners and reached under to jack him off as I thrust in and out. As I leaned forward, though, I moved into the focus of the blue beam, and--

*Bo-wazzz!*

Fucking that security guard suddenly became the most important act of my entire life! My mind was ablaze--*OhmiGod-oh-Jesus-oh-oh-oh-ohhh-aaaAAAAAAHHHH!* I shot such a load into that poor condom, I'm lucky it didn't explode inside him. My balls emptied themselves and ratcheted on empty, and still I was horny! Son of a bitch, the machine really works!!

With my last shred of sanity, I reached over and switched it off. The guard looked back over his shoulder at me, then stood up. "Heeey, what'na hell you do ta'me?"

"Small sample of mind control, Sergeant," I said. "Pull up your pants and go tell Henson we're about to make a breakthrough. Tell him I can't be bothered with his paperwork." I paused. "Tell him what I made you do."

He wouldn't, of course. No way would he report, "Mr. Henson, the scientist in Lab B-314 made me beg him to fuck me in the ass." Nothing would be reported about this, and I figured he wouldn't come back here again.

My next task was to gather up all the loose wires, the unsoldered connections, the unmounted components, and remount them into something for transport. As it turned out, the only metal box handy was Graflix's little girl's Sesame Street lunchbox, but what the hell. I soldered in a push button for the on-switch, put everything together, ran out to my car, and started the trip to Camp Lejeune. Gunnery Sergeant Checkitt had a boxing match that night on Marine Corps property.

# # #

3.

I'm not an agent for the CIA, but they gave me agency credentials, which came in handy sometimes to scare off cops about to write traffic tickets. I drove onto the post and raced to the gymnasium for Checkitt's boxing match, but I was late. "Sorry, all the bouts are over," said the guard at the door. I flashed the CIA credentials to get in anyway, then ran back to the locker rooms. There I found him. Bingo!

Checkitt was getting undressed. I caught my breath as I saw him in a jock-strap. Fuck, he's perfect! I held out my hand. "I w-watched the m-match, champ. You were g-great." I damned myself for stuttering, but he was so fucking virile!

He smiled and shook my hand. "Thank you very much."

Damn, on top of everything else, he's got a voice like Elvis! I was in a bad way. Even as I shook his hand, I imagined my cock sinking deep between his hard glutes. Mounting him would be like climbing onto a racehorse, and fucking him would be winning the Kentucky Derby.

I looked around--we were alone. I held out my CIA card. "I need to ask you some questions. Won't take a second." He shrugged his shoulders. "You have anywhere you have to go, Sergeant?"

"No, sir. I'm just about to take a shower and go on back to the barracks."

"I have something here to show you." I pulled the machine out of my briefcase.

He looked down and leered. "You want to show me a Sesame Street lunchbox, sir? Thanks, but I already ate."

"Oh, it's more than that." I opened the lunchbox, aimed the lens at him, and pushed the button.

The blue light fell over Checkitt, and he lurched as if startled. Then, sure enough, his eyes glazed over, his hands crept down to the waistband of his jock-strap, and he yanked it down. There was the finest dong I'd ever seen.

With a hard-on, Gunnery Sergeant Checkitt could hold his own in any horse corral, and when he pulled the foreskin back, his knob was the reddest, greasiest, most hypnotic bulb I ever saw. Oh, I wanted to drop on my knees before that huge idol, but I knew if I just held out, the machine would have him begging me for a fuck.

Then I got an idea: how would the machine alter his thoughts about sucking? I pulled open my own pants and fetched out my nerdy little dick, which was throbbing and stretched out to my full limit. Checkitt was in the grip of electronic lust, but he could tell what was going on, and he could still talk.

"You bastard," he growled. "You think I'm going to suck your cock?"

Hey, I hadn't said anything about a blow-job.

But, wow, as if invisible steel chains pulled him down, he sank slowly toward the ground. It was quite a show--his great muscles straining against the motion but losing the battle. Against his will, Gunnery Sergeant Checkitt knelt before me--and I was so fucking horny, I was dizzy.

I held my cock out to him, but at first he turned his head away. Then slowly, irresistibly, his ugly face came back around, and when I touched his lips with the head, he opened his mouth. "No, no, no," he gasped. "Nah, nahh, nnna--*aaarrrghlmmph!*"

Oh, yes! His huge hands seized my butt-cheeks, pulled my hips toward him, and the man himself rammed my throbbing penis to the back of his mouth and down his throat. Okay, so I'm not in his league, dick-wise (or any other -wise, for that matter), but I've got six or seven inches, and watching my dong spread his jaws, I grunted like an animal. Checkitt, on the other hand, moaned in ecstasy.

My hell, look at the spread of those shoulders! Look at those arms! I've got fucking Superman on his knees to me, sucking my cock! I placed a hand on each shoulder and as I felt the big spread, I lost control--but I realized what might happen if I passed out and released the machine's On button: Checkitt might come to and beat the shit out of me. Oh, fuck--I've got to hold back!

But with instincts I never dreamed he had, Checkitt's tongue drilled at the sensitive skin of the cum-trigger just under my cock-head, and the bastard drove me into madness. I gripped a fistful of his hair, and my last conscious act was to jam my dong so far down his throat, I swear I felt his lungs. Then I yanked it out and came, trembling against him, stars shooting off around me, everything dissolving into a red haze. I pumped sperm all over his chest and belly, all over the universe!

When sanity finally returned, I pulled back out of his throat and fell back against a locker, panting like a marathon runner as he stood up. He stared between my legs, so I looked down, too.

Damn, I was still hard! The big fucker looked into my face and hissed, "I gotta have that," and he crawled onto the massage table, onto his hands and knees. He was truly magnificent, a human Hummer, angular and hard, broad and strong. "C'mon, man," he groaned like the last words on his deathbed, "C'mon and fuck me!"

The sight of him opened up to me was more than I could take--his buttocks were dusky boulders in the light from the overhead bulb, his sturdy thighs angled up from the table where his knees ground into the sheet. And at the apex of those round, hard pillars was the soft, winking target.

He leaned forward, dropping his chest as if doing a push-up, and his ass raised toward me, inviting me to take possession. "C'mon, sink that big cock in my ass. Fuck me!"

Blood pounding in my head, I pulled on a rubber, crawled onto the table behind him, and moved between those mighty thighs. He spread his legs wider when he felt my hands on his hips, and I mounted. This will be the greatest fuck of my life. I smelled his heady musk as I moved my hands in the sweat on his hard, sweating flanks, and I was drunk again. With my cock-head at Heaven's gate, I felt a thundering power: I am the captain of this big ship! And he's begging for it!

I pushed against his hole, and he grunted, then as I punched through his security perimeter for his first time, he let out a low, bull's moan. Thrills shot up my spine. This big, male animal wants me inside him! He wants to be fucked!

Sliding my cock up his ass to the very last inch was intense! With every millimeter, the delicious friction against his tight sphincter and the searing heat of his guts was like a near-death experience. When my cock-hairs ground into his ass, Checkitt's hole gripped my dong like a vise, and that connection became the only thing keeping me from floating away into the universe. Fucking Gunnery Sergeant Checkitt was more than sex, it was a transformation.

The heat grew to a roaring bonfire spreading from my balls throughout my body, and jism skyrocketed out of me in boiling rivers. Checkitt's hips lurched under me--he's cumming from the sensation of being fucked! He likes it! The big ox crouched there, a cock in his ass, climaxing his fucking brains out, shooting big spurts of semen onto the table.

When I finally fell back, something made me sit up with a start: *My finger had slipped off the On button!* The machine wasn't working! Oh, my God--it hasn't been on since the blow-job!

I looked at Checkitt, and he looked back into my eyes. He kissed me on the mouth. "Man," he said, "how did you know how much I love cock?"