Active Duty

by Active Duty- Gay Military Erotic Romance [Cleis MM] (retail) (epub)

  I was still shaking, trying to breathe, when I looked up to see Eric frozen above me, his whole body stiff as he took deep, trembling breaths.

  “Don’t move,” he gasped. “Or I’ll shoot. God, you’re so tight, Caleb. Your ass is so sweet.” Eric’s face was flushed a deep, dick red. I could almost see the blood throbbing through the veins in his neck. I willed my asshole to relax, to not grip and milk the throbbing cock buried in my ass.

  Eric withdrew slowly, panting as he crawled back from the edge. I peeled off my container, sealing it and marking it with my thumbprint before I set the still-warm polyskin on the tray beside the bed. Eric was dripping sweat as he again wiped his dick down with disinfectant and carefully rolled his sheath down his shaft. The fluid turned milky instantly as his precum dripped into the receptacle.

  “I’m not going to last long,” Eric gasped as he rolled over onto his back. He pulled his knees up and back, his rock-hard dick arching up over his belly.

  “Don’t touch my cock,” he panted as I buried my face in his crack. “I’m too close.” He groaned out loud as I swiped my tongue between his open cheeks and started tonguing his sweet, tight sphincter. He was sweaty all over now, his ass thick with the scent of his musk in spite of the soap and disinfectant. I bent him farther back, opening his hole to my probing. He wiggled and gasped, heat radiating out of him as I licked the edges of his asslips, kissing harder, poking my tongue in deeper. I spread his asscheeks wide, grinning as his sphincter gave way and my lips pressed up hard against his pucker.

  “Fuck, your tongue feels good!” Eric was writhing beneath me. He grabbed my hair in a death grip, grunting as he arched his ass up toward me. I sucked his asslips in a long, slow, wet kiss. His hole was as ready as a boy’s could be.

  “I can’t hold off much longer,” he gasped. “My balls are churning. Fuck me, Caleb. Now—please!”

  I was so wasted from my climax I’d been afraid I’d have to use a dildo after all. But watching Eric so totally out of control kept me hard while I humped the mattress. I started lubing him up, stretching him with my fingers as I rubbed his hypersensitive ball sac with my thumbs.

  “You’re ripe, babe,” I whispered, massaging each orb, handling them as gently as near-bursting seed pods while I worked his asshole open the rest of the way. A pool of white juices filled the tip of his collection sheath. “Your balls are ready to explode, lover.”

  “Please, Caleb,” Eric whispered. He shuddered, gasping and arching up as I lightly tickled my finger over his joyspot. “Don’t! I want to come while you’re fucking me. I want it so bad!”

  His cock was drooling almost constantly, his face flushed with lust. He cried out as I started into him, the head of my throbbing cock slowly stretching him.

  “Want you,” he gasped. He lifted his ass to me, bearing down, his voice keening as I slid up into him. Eric loved a slow fuck. I gave it to him, pressing the precum out of him one drooling strand at a time, mercilessly matching my strokes to his long, quivering pulls on his dick.

  “I love you,” I whispered. “We’re going to make beautiful kids. The best.” I dragged almost all the way out then slid back in as slowly as I could. Eric cried out, his heat sliding over my dick like a glove as he started to shake. His sphincter clamped down on me and I jumped in surprise as my own tired dick tensed to come.

  “Shoot for me babe,” I gasped, willing myself to hold off. Eric was so beautiful, he took my breath away. Then he was yelling, his dick spurting wildly into the sheath as he convulsed beneath me, and my own startled shaft shot almost dry up his ass.

  Eric collapsed on the bed, trembling as I carefully peeled off his sheath, sealed it and pressed his thumb to the imprint square. I pushed the buzzer over the bed, then I dragged Eric into my arms and curled up around him. I was asleep before the attendant arrived to pick up the donations. We had the bed for another hour, and like any good soldier, I grabbed my sleep when I could—especially when I was dreaming about the great future Eric and I were going to have together, we and our kids.

  A VOICE IN THE DARK

  Neil Plakcy

  The male voice came out of the dark. “You speak English?” I rubbed my wrists where they’d tied me up with rope. It didn’t feel like the skin had been broken on either arm, but it was too damn dark in the room to tell. “American. You?”

  The voice was rough, as if he had something stuck in his throat. “Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment,” he said.

  “I’m impressed. Regular Army here.” My eyes began to get accustomed to the lack of light in the windowless cell, and I made out the shape of another man sitting on the floor across from me. I stepped over and extended my hand downward. “Captain Jeremy Groom, First Infantry.”

  He didn’t stand but shook my hand. “Lieutenant Alec Macpherson.”

  His grip was strong beneath the ragged bandages that covered his hand, and the warmth of his hand in mine sent an immediate and dangerous message to my groin.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked. I looked around, finally able to see where I was. The cell was about eight feet long and four feet wide; the floor was packed earth but the walls were concrete block. No windows. No furniture, just a foul-smelling bucket in the corner in lieu of a toilet.

  Summer in the Afghan highlands was ending, and the outside temperature had been in the high sixties. It was warmer inside than it had been outdoors, probably the result of the mountain sun heating the corrugated roof.

  I shucked my soft-shell jacket, leaving me in a camo shirt and pants, with wool socks and boots and a light-green T-shirt and boxers underneath.

  “What day is it?” Alec asked, as I dropped my jacket to the ground.

  “October first.”

  “Then I’ve been here about two weeks,” he said. “I was captured in the mountains outside this nowhere town called Fayzabad. But then I spent a couple of days tied up in the back of a truck.”

  “No idea where Fayzabad is,” I said. “I got separated from my convoy on a trip from Kabul to Jalalabad.”

  “You think we’re close to Kabul now? Or Jalalabad?”

  “Not sure. Like you, I spent a couple of days in a truck.”

  “So we have no fucking idea where we are.”

  “Maybe.” I sat down across from him. When I’d been pushed out of the back of the truck, I’d seen the building we were in; it was squat and single-story, with front windows that had been boarded up, and a faded sign in Arabic lettering. “When they brought me in I recognized the word for school over the front door,” I said. “It was in Dari.”

  The Dari language, also known as Farsi or Afghan Persian, dominated in the north, western and central parts of the country. It was the lingua franca of Afghanistan, though Pashto dominated in the south.

  “You can read it?”

  “I’m a tactical linguist. Dari, Pashto and Farsi. Don’t you get language training in the Rangers?”

  “I can speak a little Dari but can’t read shit. How’d you get caught?”

  “I was attached to a UN-sponsored mission with family planning information for native women. I was translating at an information session at a village when bombs started flying. I was taken while I was helping some women get away. How about you?”

  “Mission failure. Pinned down while providing cover.” Alec struggled to sit up against the wall. I could see he was hurt but couldn’t tell how badly. “You able to see anything else that might tell us where we are?”

  I shrugged. “We’re at the base of a mountain. Dusting of snow at the top. Early afternoon when they brought me in.”

  “Which side of the mountain?”

  “West side. We’re in kind of a bowl—lower mountains to the north and south. Open plains to the east.” I hesitated then figured that very quickly there would be no secrets between us. “How bad are you hurt?”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “Cut the bad-boy bravado. Specifics?”

  He grunted. “I thought at first that my left ankle w
as broken, but I can’t feel any broken bones, and as long as I don’t put pressure on it there isn’t much pain.” He held up his hands, which were wrapped in grimy cloth. “Knife wounds to both hands. They sting but I think they’re healing. Hard to see anything in here.”

  I looked up. Daylight filtered through a tiny gap where the flat metal roof rested on top of the highest course of concrete block. “Can you stand?” I asked.

  “As long as I don’t put too much weight on my left side. But the ceiling’s low—in some places I have to duck my head an inch or two.”

  “Perfect. Stand up.”

  “Why?”

  “See that gap up there? If we can make it bigger we’ll have a better idea of day and night.”

  “Tried that already. The concrete’s too hard.”

  “But you didn’t have what I do.” I reached down and took off my right boot. A month before, the insole had begun separating from the base. Instead of requisitioning a new pair, I had tucked a tiny file with a sharp end into the gap. I reached inside and dug my finger around until I found it.

  “Resourceful,” Alec said. He struggled to get up, and I grabbed him under one arm to lift. He was a big guy, with powerful biceps. His raw masculinity sent a thrill of desire through my body.

  Once he stood, I had a better sense of him. At least six-four, broad shouldered and deep chested, with a narrow waist. His camouflage T-shirt hung loosely, indicating that he’d lost weight in his captivity. I handed him the file, and when our hands touched I felt that electricity again.

  The last time I’d gotten laid was on R&R six months before. After Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was wiped out, I came out to my commander, and eventually the rest of my team. I was the only gay soldier I knew and even if I’d known another, I was smart enough to keep my dick in my pants when it came to the military.

  Alec listed to the right as he tried to keep the weight off his left leg. “I need to turn around,” he said. “If I face the wall, I can lean on it.”

  “All right.” I put my hands on his waist, one of them slipping accidentally beneath his T-shirt to the smooth flesh beneath. I flashed back to the last time I’d touched a man’s skin, a week before I shipped out, and my dick swelled.

  I pulled my hand away and replaced it over his waistband. I helped him turn, steadying him as he hopped on his right foot in a half-circle. He was so close to me I could have leaned forward to kiss the back of his neck. I had to back my hips away so my hard-on didn’t press against his ass.

  He leaned against the wall, bracing himself with his right foot, and tried to raise his right arm. But he couldn’t maintain his balance, and I had to body-block him to keep him upright. I was sure that my hard-on jammed against his butt as I grabbed him, but neither of us mentioned it.

  He switched the file to his left hand and raised it to the ceiling. He began to pick at the concrete, and tiny bits flew out of the opening. I could see he was having trouble keeping his arm raised, and I put the flat of my hand beneath his left bicep to hold him up. “Yeah, that’s good,” he said.

  The musky smell of his underarm filled my nostrils as he chipped away at the concrete. “Not too much,” I said. “Just enough so we can get some light. But we don’t want it too visible to them.”

  “Not my first time at the rodeo,” Alec grunted. My own arm started to flag and I shifted my body so I could keep his arm up. That meant my hard-on was pressing against his butt again. I tried to back away but Alec shifted his ass so I couldn’t move.

  Huh? Did he know what was going on, or was he just struggling for a better position?

  He took out a quarter-sized chunk and real sunlight came into the cell in a thin stream. For the first time I got a good look at him—though from behind. His hair was a dirty blond, his buzz cut starting to grow out. He had a tattoo on his left bicep of interwoven barbed wire.

  “I think that’s enough for now,” he said, and his body sagged as he lowered his arm.

  “You should probably sit down,” I said, cradling one arm around his back as he lowered himself. As we went down together my face ended up against his, feeling the scratch of his beard against my smooth-shaven cheek.

  The first man I ever kissed had a mustache and a soul patch, and ever since then I’ve had a taste for hairy faces. I wanted nothing more than to rub my cheek against his, luxuriating in the feel of his skin on mine. But I backed off as he slipped down to a sitting position.

  He handed me the file and I sat on the rough ground to replace it in my shoe. By the time I was finished he was stretched out on the ground, with his camo jacket balled up under his head as a pillow. “Gonna take a nap,” he said. “Wake me when the rapture comes.”

  “Will do.”

  I sat back against the wall as Alec nodded off. I didn’t think the extra gap would be noticeable to our captors; the hall outside had enough light that their eyes would have to adjust to the darkness inside, as mine had.

  I watched Alec sleep, taking note of his smooth forehead and slim eyebrows. He had a broad face with a small nose and wide mouth. Damn, he was handsome, and the multi-day growth of his beard only made him appear more masculine. I didn’t see much body hair—nothing around the neck or over his impressive biceps. His pecs were just as big.

  But enough horn-dogging. The military had attempted to train me to think logically, so I considered my situation. I was locked in a cell in an isolated area of Afghanistan, held by captors I thought were Taliban—but I wasn’t sure. Four men, a mix of teens and adults, had brought me there in the truck, but I didn’t know how many had remained.

  My cellmate had a weak ankle and appeared to have gotten debilitated during the time of his captivity. The fact that he’d been there for a while implied that they were in no hurry to get rid of either of us.

  Our only weapon, as far as I could tell, was the tiny file in my shoe. If I got close enough to a jailer, I might be able to use the file to cut him or even put out an eye. But would that be enough? And was I adept enough to manage? Alec undoubtedly could; Rangers were famous for being able to get out of tough situations with their wits and brawn alone.

  The door to the cell swung open and banged against the wall. An elderly Afghan man with a creased face, missing several teeth, held out two two flat ovals of nan-e Afghani, the native bread cooked in a tandoori oven. He wore a light-blue headscarf and a woven sweater in a pattern of blue and purple diamonds.

  I jumped up and began speaking in rapid Dari. “This man is injured. He needs soap and water and clean bandages. If you don’t keep him alive he will die, and you will lose his value as a hostage.”

  “I am just an old man,” he said, thrusting the bread toward me. It was still warm, speckled with tiny burnt circles, and smelled rich and doughy.

  I took the bread, and he backed away, slamming the door behind him.

  “What did you say to him?” Alec asked.

  I handed him one of the flat breads. “That you needed fresh bandages.” I took a bite of the bread, which tasted as delicious as anything I’d ever eaten, and I realized how long it had been since I’d had food in my stomach. “This is all we get?”

  “There’ll be stew later.”

  “Is he the only one who’s ever come to look after you?” I asked.

  “As far as I know. I’ve heard other voices, so there might be more.”

  I chewed the bread slowly, to make it last, and wished I had some water to go with it. A few minutes later, the cell door swung open again. This time the old man had a basin of water, a bottle of U.S.-issued hand sanitizer and a roll of gauze over his shoulder. He handed the stuff to me without saying anything, then left.

  “You must have the magic touch,” Alec said.

  I shrugged. “It’s a gift. Let’s see what your hands look like.”

  He shifted position into the shaft of light, and I began to unwrap the dirty gauze. It could have been worse; his wounds were angry and red, but they had scabbed over and there wasn’t evidence of gangrene or a
ny serious infection. “Whoever wrapped you up the first time did a good job,” I said, balling up the layers of flimsy gray fabric.

  “I did it.”

  I looked up at him. “You?”

  “Rangers learn field medicine. Ninety percent of deaths in the field come from nonfatal wounds left untreated.”

  His left hand was shaking, and I clasped it in both of mine to calm it.

  “That feels good,” he said.

  His eyes were light blue, the color of the early morning sky. I looked deep into them, then, embarrassed, pulled my hands back. I had learned to keep a clean handkerchief in my pants pocket, and I dug it out, then dipped it in the warm water and wrung it out.

  “You don’t have to do that,” he said, reaching for the cloth. “I can manage.”

  “You’ll cross-contaminate,” I said briskly. “If you try and clean one hand with another that’s already dirty. Just let me take care of you.”

  He smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  I liked his smile. “Good attitude, soldier,” I said.

  “But if I were you…” he began.

  I looked up at him.

  “I’d take a drink before getting the water dirty. And I’d give one to my buddy, too. You don’t know when the next time we’ll see water will be.”

  “Good idea.” I lifted the bowl and took a small sip. The tepid water tasted metallic, but it felt great on my parched throat. We passed the bowl back and forth a couple of times, taking small sips. When we were finished, I carefully wiped away the dirt from his hands, one by one, spraying each with the hand sanitizer. When they were dry I wrapped the bandage around them sparingly, leaving his fingers free to function.

  We spent a very intimate half hour together, sitting close to each other, one of us always touching the other. The feel of his skin against mine sent my heart racing and made my dick swell. I felt myself blushing and hurried through the final steps. Then I moved back to my side of the cell.