Layover

From: Rick Jackson

Picture: Michael Kirwan

Published in: Playguy, February 2002

Where one good lay deserves another

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Marines love sex with men--hard, knock-down, bone-humping sex with equally hard men. That's why most of us joined the Corps to begin with. No other life puts a young man so close with so many so buff young men just out of high school so much of the time. Watching other Marines sweat in the gym, stretch in the base sauna, and lie sleeping in the barracks keeps us entertained in between our real workout sessions in the showers or wherever we can find to be almost alone. In just a year the Marines had transformed me from a shy eighteen-year-old near-virgin into an accomplished hunter of men.

Unfortunately, the unit command can be a real worm in this Eden's apple. I'd just spent five months deployed on a ship where the colonel was the dictionary illustration of a dick. He was "born again" and saw his mission in life and ticket to the great beyond in a campaign devoted to making all his Marines miserable to the max. The bastard spent so much time up everybody's figurative ass that he gave a whole new meaning to "anal retentive." I hoped like hell that my next command in Pendleton would be more Don't Ask. If nothing else, at least Pendleton would have more bushes to fuck in than on the ship.

I won't say I didn't get some occasional quick fan-room action at sea, but after five months of mostly fucking my hand, I was in bad shape. When my flight back from the Gulf left me with a twenty-five-hour layover at Heathrow, I decided to take care of old business and get a little ahead, just in case. My ploy was simple: take a shower in the transient lounge at Terminal 3 and depend upon the kindness of strangers.

I don't like to brag, but I'm the kind of guy strangers like being kind to. I have red hair and green eyes, my face is cute and I can arrange more dimples when I need to. My hard nineteen-year-old body is my real sales point, though. If you've ever done a young Marine, you know how tight and hard the Corps builds men. I was six-foot-two to start with and have worked like a bastard at being all I can be. Even though I wasn't traveling in uniform, I had zero doubt in my military mind that I could find a place to stay and a hole to fill for the night. After all, the term "layover" had to come from somewhere.

I needed a good wash, so I took my time. I needed room to work, so I left the shower curtain open. I was plenty wet, so I took my time stroking that rough cotton towel across my hard, naked flesh. You can bet my ass that I had an audience, but it took awhile for me to find my *homme du jour*. Then, finally, one of the hired help stroked in to check on soap supplies and I was in love.

Peter divided his time between work and studying part time at Oxford. He was nineteen like me and built more-than-fine for a civilian. His ass was full and firm and rugby-hard; his belly and pees were prime beef. I noticed his bright blue eyes first, because they were bugging out at the sight of my nine thick inches of Marine tool swinging low and free. His lips were full and parted and ready. His jaw was Mountie-solid, a single thick brow slashing above his eyes promised savage animal sex, and his cleft chin and dimples were doubly good-to-go.

Peter had a raw sexuality and bright-eyed innocence that all but forced me to fuck my new friend up his monumental butt right on the spot. I later discovered Peter's broad chest a-swirl with soft black hair that led down across his six-pack abs to an uncut slab of British beef that would have done any Marine just fine.

In the thirty minutes it took Peter to drive me back to his home, I worried less about what he was saying and more about his avoiding smashing into trucks. It's one thing to know everyone belonged on the wrong side of the road; it's another entirely to believe it in Friday afternoon traffic with eighteen-wheelers charging at you.

Amidst the usual pre-fuck charm and chatter, I did hear Peter say that he shared the cottage with his brother. I didn't care if his brother heard us humping. Peter was so cute and I was so horny, I'd have fucked him up the ass on his mother's good china. He didn't bother mentioning until we were almost there that his brother was an identical twin--and something of a slut who often tried to steal his men. Of course, I promised Peter I would be faithful, even as I began dreaming of very different delights, indeed.

Peter tried pulling me quietly and quickly through the living room and into his bedroom, but Paul had the ears of a bat. He yelled something about dinner and wandered out of the bathroom, fresh and glistening from the shower, toweling off his hair, naked as sin incarnate. When he saw me, I saw him plenty--down to his hungry grin and the way his big uncut dick did a twitch and a jump and started to inflate. As I discovered mere moments later when I got Peter naked, they really were identical, only each was more beautiful than the other. Peter grabbed my arm and pulled me out of temptation's way, yelling something over his shoulder about sodding the fuck off and how Paul hadn't fucking shared his very pretty trucker from Brighton.

Once we were alone, we shucked in a flash of flying clothes and far-flung shoes and stood for a long moment, each of us comparing the remembered glory of the other's body with the flesh-and-bone reality. Peter's dick and mine both stood tall, thumping against our bare bellies as his oozed pre-cum out of his cowl and down his shaft and onto his nuts. I don't know why I've never been able to make pre-cum, but my defect has made me relish other men's all the more.

I pushed Peter back onto his bed and spread his legs wide. My face licked his bone clean and then his belly where his lizard so loved to drool. His dick-honey was sweet and slick and slipped across my taste buds like my soul's very salvation. Then I moved to his balls and beyond. My hands were firm on his thighs and kept him spread wide so that about all Peter could do as I tore my way along his crotch was to moan and gibber in British and buck harder up into my face. I had been a virgin so long that I'm afraid I took what I wanted and made him like it.

For a time, I worked on his huge tender nuts, sucking them into my mouth in turn, tonguing each one hard up against my palate to squeeze loose the load he was hoarding there. My teeth trapped a nut inside my mouth and pulled down hard, stretching his sperm-chords and his patience toward the breaking point. Then I would let it escape for a moment and go after his spare. His crotch was hot and sweaty and wild with man-musk after a day at work, but it was nothing compared with the savory scents wafting up from his ass.

That tight civilian crack seduced me south, quite against my will. I wanted to chew his 'nads and suck his dick until it ruptured wide with English cream, but they would have to wait. His ass screamed out for abuse. I had to drop one of his legs and twist my face sideways to get a good angle--to say nothing of prying his tight, hard collegiate glutes wide enough to work my face into his business. Once it was there, though, my lips found his hot, sweat-slicked hole almost as much fun as a shower full of virgin recruits. I lapped his trembling hole wet with spit and then locked my lips down hard, trapping his hole against my face, targeting his virtue with my tongue. I usually tease a man's ass first, darting here and there in lightning-fast guerilla strikes before shifting my campaign of terror somewhere else to keep his nerve endings sensitive and desperate for more. I tried my tricks with Peter, but the whore needed me too much. His butt ground into my face, humping up to chase me down until I gave him a couple broad inches of tongue through his shit-hole. Then he went berserk and my mission changed to just holding onto his ass while his hole rubbed my face raw.

Splattered spit and grinding glutes composed my cosmos as Peter bucked and writhed and screamed at whole pantheons of profane gods until I yearned to move up his tight, tender ass and make a new home there. Much as I loved the slick texture of his skin and the heat of his ass and the ripe, randy smell of man, I knew the organ he really needed buried deep was the one throbbing fecklessly against my belly. After weeks without tasting tail, my lizard was one seriously deprived and savagely depraved beast--one which would not be denied.

Since Peter's ass was already spread wide, I needed only to spit out his asshole and ram in my hard military unit. Like a lot of Marines, I generally prefer the added control and relative anonymity of doing my bitches deep from behind. Peter, though, with his savory muscles and heart-stopping blue eyes, was such a tasty young dude that I flipped him back down to the bed and lifted his legs to the ceiling. My stiff inches of Marine meat were swollen past all precedent. I knew damned well that when I fucked my Peter up the butt, he was going to suspect he'd dragged something home from Stonehenge. More to fuck with his mind than anything else, I leaned low and sank another Corps-quality kiss onto his mouth as my left hand instructed his right nip. His butt was ready and wriggling its welcome, but I savored the suspense. Peter moaned and squirmed and begged for my butt-busting bone, yet I held myself in check.

His hands practically raped my back and shoulders, pulling me downward as his heels took care of my ass. His bellows begging me to dick him were a special double rush because I love making my meat squirm first--and because I knew his equally slurpy brother had to be getting the earful of his life. At last, though, I knew my bone would bust wide unless I made a move. I pulled my mouth away from his neck and gave his face a broad cat-like swipe of my tongue as I smashed my swollen way up through the first piece of man-hole I had had in nearly a month.

Peter was a perfect picture of that classic male dilemma and reminded me of my first time at the hands of a horny and very hearty farmhand back in Montana--just a week after I turned eighteen and a week before I joined the Corps. At first entry, his body froze in time for the nanosecond it took his ripping nerves and screaming sphincter to tell his brain just how much man he had bitten off. Once the good news exploded through his consciousness and swept away what had been, he had to instinctively reconfigure his future. Either he could keep bearing down to deny the first cascades of muscle-knotting, ass-clenching, heart-stopping agony, or he could open himself up to celebrate his torment and transform it into his greatest glory. Either he would be a saint or a slut, to suffer tortures of the flesh or rejoice ecstatically in the spirit.

Not ten seconds after I broke my way up Peter's tight British butt, his beautifully hard body transformed itself from defensive bastion into the most sublimely offensive shit-hole since Mogadishu. Muscles eased, jaws and lips parted, and his gorgeous blue eyes opened on a new existence--one in which I was at once his master and his soul's savior. A low, almost subsonic moan of ancient anguish struggled upward from the very core of his masculine being to resonate in the rich rapture of the moment. His hands and heels fought even more fiercely to meld my flesh and bone with his.

With each upward stroke of my shank, Peter revised his moan with greater desperation; with each savage downward thrust reaming my knob nine ruthless inches through his guts, a grunt of proud renewal swept out to play a perfect counterpoint to the thwack of my hips against his sweaty glutes. We were fucking virtuosi! I used that tight, eager hole harder and faster and deeper with every building thrust. Sometimes I bounced purposefully off his prostate just for the wicked pleasure of seeing his body shudder and shiver in helpless seizures. Sometimes I liked to pop all the way out, just so I could smash my thick way back in and stretch that straining sphincter again. Mostly, though, I was less interested in technique or even in giving Peter the good time he so deserved. My major Marine mission was to bust the nut of my life up his ass, and that took no fucking talent whatsoever.

One stroke bred another until I had fucked us across Peter's mattress and into his headboard. I picked him up in my arms and fucked his ass into the air for the simple pleasure of feeling his shit-hole strain tight around the base of my bone as gravity pounded his body back down onto my pelvis. I carried his ass to a dresser so I could bang his back against the wall and see my face and his as I reamed him louder and happier with each bestial thrust. At the time, I wasn't aware of much other than the slippery feel of Peter's sweaty flesh against mine, the savory smell of man-sex that clogged the air, and our jungle grunts and groans and snarls of bone-bred bliss.

When I finally lost my bearing and my load and blew my nut up into Peter's hungry hole, I found myself nailing his butt to the floor. My mouth had already branded him with more hickeys than the Seventh Fleet and was back buried inside his right ear. My eyes lost themselves in his as I pumped his guts full of my prime-quality jarhead jism. But all I really remember were the gleam in his eyes and the broad grin of triumph across his gorgeous face. I called him every vile name I knew--and even young Marines know a lot--but only because he had tempted me to fly too high too soon. The searing heat of our fuck-friction fanned the flames of frenzy until my wings melted away and I fell, without a sting, into a golden sea of such sweet and honeyed bliss that it must have been the very fount of Paradise.

When, at long, long last, my nuts ran dry and spooge had splattered across my balls and thighs even as Peter's own protein had blasted in great wads of pearly shrapnel halfway to Wales, I fucked his shattered ass some more just to prove what bastards Marines arc. In the end, I dragged my dick out of his ass and kissed him by way of thanks--and then set to work lapping up the mess he had made himself as he cleaned my loins with his tongue. The next twenty hours are a blur of half-remembered outrages against simple decency. I know I fucked him a second or third time in the shower and let him use my ass before we moved into the kitchen to devour some omelets for dinner. It was almost ten by then so we were starved, but both our guts sloshed full to overflowing with frothy cream.

We had wrapped towels around our stiff dicks and leaky assholes. Nevertheless, Paul couldn't take his eyes off us as we chatted in the laughing language of lovers and gobbled down fuel for the night to come. We left the dishes for him and went back to bed for some of those long, slow fucks I so enjoy when a man has really run out of protein, but is still hard to please. I lost track of how many nuts I blew back up Peter's butt and down his throat and across his firm body, but about 3 a.m. he gave up and pulled me into his arms and begged for sleep.

I warned him what I would do if he couldn't keep me satisfied, but he just grinned and said that it would serve his twin right. Paul was so fast asleep that I had my dick halfway through his hole before he woke up, practically levitating off the mattress as his hole struggled to escape my sneak attack. Once we came down again, I learned the value of having a perfect young backup stud in reserve. If anything, Paul was even rougher and readier than his big brother. By about 9 a.m., though, he had started to fade.

After a year in the Corps, I knew enough about frayed fraternal psychology to realize I had the perfect cure--me! I dragged his dick into Peter's bedroom and ordered them both to fuck me fore and aft. The show reflected in Peter's dresser mirror proved that the dudes loved battling to see who could fuck me harder and fuller and deeper almost as much as they loved boning my mouth and butt and beyond. When the time came for them to haul the ruins of my ass back to Heathrow, I had not only taken care of my personal needs but had made a couple of new friends--and taught them how to share.

I may have to lay over again at Heathrow when the opportunity arises. Not only did I have one nice fucking time, but I passed out the minute I hit my seat and didn't wake up until San Francisco. Some guys say they can't sleep on a plane, but I think those assholes just aren't trying hard enough.