“On your back with your legs in the air.”
I lay down on my back and spread my legs. Istvan got on his knees at my crotch. He leaned over me and kissed me, hard. Then he massaged my neck and shoulders. Working his way down to my pecs, he sucked on one of my nipples, then on the other. His tongue left a trail of saliva down my belly. He buried his mouth in my pubic bush.
“Nice cock,” he moaned.
“I thought we were going to fuck!” I protested. The delay was driving me insane.
“In a minute. First—” His mouth swallowed my cock. His lips worked my foreskin up and down over my shaft, and his tongue rubbed over my cockhead. While he sucked me, he toyed with my balls. His lips and his fingers conspired to bring me very close to shooting.
“I want your cock up my ass,” I insisted. “But let me have a finger or two in there, first. I need to get warmed up a little before I take that big thing of yours up my butt again. You nearly tore me apart back there in the library john.”
Still blowing me, Istvan greased his fingers. One of them slid into me easily and probed the walls of my anus. Then he pushed in a second finger. I relaxed and willed my hole to open up. He diddled me expertly. It felt good, but it also made my asshole even more impatient for his cock.
“I’m ready,” I pleaded. “Give it to me!” I draped my legs over his shoulders and I moved my butt down until my cleft met his cockhead. He positioned his glans against my pucker. “Fuck me,” I begged.
Istvan worked himself into me, slowly. His cockhead pried open the defenses of my anal pucker, and then it popped inside me. He paused for a moment before he made a first, tentative fucking motion, withdrawing partway only to slide his shaft back into my anus at full length. I let out a groan of delight. Again, he paused.
“Okay?” he whispered.
I nodded. “Hell, yes! Go for it. Fuck me. Don’t hold back. Give me all you’ve got. And this time, nothing is going to interrupt us. This time, don’t you dare stop until you’ve really taken and used my ass.”
That was the end of any hesitation on his part. He humped me furiously, and my gloating ass took it, gratefully, greedily. I closed my eyes and I clenched and unclenched my anal muscles around the impalement. Soon, we had a steady, pulverizing rhythm going. I tightened my horny hole every time he bored into me, and I eased up whenever he withdrew. We were both groaning now, and I felt the hot sweat of energetic sex trickling down the sides of my torso from my armpits.
Suddenly, Istvan pulled out of me completely. I was about to complain, to tell him to shove his dick right back into me, when I felt his big hands gripping me by my hips. Deftly, he swung my body around, and at the same time he got down on his knees—and he went down on my cock. Gasping, I pulled on his ears and his hair, indiscriminately, holding his head against my seething groin while I fucked his face. Expertly, he deep-throated me, emitting retching noises which I could tell were indicative of his pleasure, and not of any repugnance on his part.
He was such a good cocksucker that I knew I’d shoot if he kept working on my cock much longer.
“Get back inside me,” I begged. “Oh, your mouth feels so good on my cock, but your dick feels even better in my ass. Please … please fuck me some more.”
Drooling saliva from his panting lips, he eased his mouth from my aching dick. He stood up. I spun around and once again I faced away from him, offering him my behind. I was on my knees on the mattress, facing the wall against which my bed was placed. I could reach out and rest my palms on the wall to steady myself.
“Fuck me,” I once again urged him. But the invitation had already been accepted.
Istvan rammed his prick up my butt, taking full repossession of it, and he fucked me even harder than he had before. Still leaning against the wall with one hand, I seized my cock in my other hand, and I began jerking off.
“That’s right, big guy,” he told me. “Come for me. Shoot your load.”
“Only if you come, too.”
“No problem. I’m just about there.”
“Do it. Blow your wad.”
“Come, you muscle son of a bitch. Let me see your cum spray all over that wall.”
“Aw, sweet Jesus,” I gasped, as I began to unload.
My semen shot free from my well-fisted prick. It did indeed smack against the wall, soiling it, dripping sluggishly downward from the point of impact. As my cum lost its initial velocity and ran down over my hand, I felt him explode deep inside me. His cockhead, sheathed in the condom, throbbed so fiercely against the constricting walls of my anal tunnel that I was sure he was discharging an exceptionally big load. Both of us were shuddering, and moaning as though we were in some shared agony.
We remained locked together until our erotic fury subsided. Then Istvan pulled out of me. Yanking the filled rubber from his flaccid dick, he tossed it nonchalantly to the floor. We lay there on the rumpled sheets, still facing each other, both of us a wet, sticky mess. Our limp cocks were satisfied at last—at least for the time being.
Chapter Five: A Military Exercise
Like a lot of young Hungarian men, I joined the army reserve. This was shortly after I moved from Debrecen to Budapest, to seek my fortune in the big city.
My motives were mostly patriotic, but also partly mercenary. Members of the army reserve committed themselves to drilling on two weekends each month—for which they were, of course, paid. It was a good way to make some extra money. Employers were encouraged to be flexible and give their workers the time off, should the drills conflict with their work schedules.
At the time, I had my weekends free, so that wasn’t a problem. My only concern was that the two monthly drills might interfere with my weight training. But the military promoted fitness, and I knew I’d be doing a lot of aerobic work, in the form of marching, hiking, and other physical exercises, if nothing else.
On our weekends on the job, we reservists assembled in one of the city’s squares on Friday evening. There, a troop carrier picked us up, and drove us to the camp, which was located in an isolated rural area. We were driven back to the city on Sunday evening.
In between, we lived and drilled in the same way as the full-time soldiers did.
My muscles weren’t just for show. I was quite strong, if I do say so myself, and as a result I had no difficulties with the physical training.
I’d assumed that, for the duration of these weekends, I’d be giving up my social life—to say nothing of any semblance of a sex life. But I was wrong. The camp offered us only limited recreational activities, during our few hours of free time. Boredom drew the men together in a close-knit camaraderie. I got along well with the other guys in my barracks. A lot of them openly admired my physique. And some of the bolder guys made no secret of the fact that they were interested in me, sexually.
Far from being forced to remain celibate, I soon realized that I could pick and choose from a fairly large pool of potential sex partners, and I could fool around as much as I wanted to.
Not everyone was impressed by my physique. My firearms instructor, for one, was distinctly unenthusiastic.
“Varady, you big, ugly, stupid, muscle-bound, muscle-headed son of a bitch,” he barked at me. “Get down on the ground when you fire that rifle! On your belly. Lie there flat. I want you to eat dirt, soldier. I want you to fuck dirt. Keep down so low that you poke a hole in the ground with your dick. God, the enemy is going to love you! Those muscles of yours may make you hot shit in civilian life, soldier boy. But out here, they only make you a bigger target. Now, shoot at the goddamn target, if your frigging fingers aren’t as muscle-bound as the rest of you, and if they can even squeeze the trigger, which I doubt. Shoot, you big, dumb son of a bitch! And shoot to kill. Get them before they get you.”
He emphasized the need to keep myself prostrate on the ground, by planting the sole of his boot on my butt and resting his entire weight on me.
“Shoot!” he bellowed, as he kept my ass trapped under the sole of his boot. “Pull the tr
igger, you motherfucker. Empty your clip. Shoot. Shoot!”
I wanted to shoot him, but I restrained myself, and I did my best to follow his instructions. I riddled the target with bullets. My aim might not have been terribly accurate, but I was thorough. Had that target been flesh and blood, it would’ve been spouting blood.
“That’s right,” the instructor growled. “Let fly. Shoot it all. Blow your wad!”
I could think of much more pleasurable ways to blow my wad. And soon enough, an opportunity presented itself.
During our very next drill, two weeks later, the weather report advised that conditions would be miserable all weekend long—cold, rainy, and windy. Our company commander was delighted by the forecast. He decided that this would be a perfect opportunity for us grunts to engage in a field exercise which would require us to “rough it” in the outdoors.
And so, we not only had to hike far into the hilly, wooded area surrounding the camp—we had to spend the night in the wilderness.
The hike, which began in the late afternoon, was a wretched trudge through mud, with nonstop rain pelting down upon us. Our ponchos did little to protect us from the elements. In our backpacks, we were allowed to carry only the bare essentials. Each of us had, in addition to his rifle and sidearm, a rolled-up sleeping bag and a blanket, an aluminum mess kit and some prepackaged rations, a flashlight, and a change of socks. That was it. We weren’t allowed to bring along any electronic devices, such a cell phones or pocket radios. Our packs and our persons were in fact checked out before we left, and any such contraband was confiscated.
A flatbed truck had preceded us along our route. When the truck reached a stretch of sloping ground where the trees were sparser, the guys riding in the back of the truck started to toss out identical bundles of supplies at wide-spaced intervals. Each bundle consisted of a two-man tent, a shovel, and a small battery-operated lantern.
We were paired off for the hike, and when we reached the first of the bundles, the first pair of guys dropped out to set up camp for the night—and so forth, until our company was spread out over the landscape, two by two, far enough apart that you couldn’t see your neighbors in the next tent.
Our instructions were simple. We had to set up our tent, dig ourselves a latrine nearby, and spend the night on the hillside. Without a fire or any other source of heat, by the way, and with only our flashlights and the lantern for light. We were expected to eat our rations cold, which was probably the most disgusting part of the experience—although the continued lousy weather ran it a close second. In the morning, we’d break camp, hook up again, and hike back to headquarters.
I didn’t see the point of the exercise, unless it was a psychological test, designed to weed out any recruits who might go stir-crazy overnight and end up running through the woods shrieking—or, worse, killing their tent mates.
After that long, cold hike, I actually volunteered to dig the latrine, because I knew that some physical exercise would help to warm me up a little. Meanwhile, my partner pitched our tent, and I have to admit that he did so quickly and efficiently. His name was Marton, and he was a sturdily built, surly young number, who’d grown up on a farm near Solt. [Translator’s note: Solt is a small town located south of Hungary.] He’d joined the army reserves because it gave him a chance to earn some money, to get away from home every other weekend, and also to experience, he’d hoped, some excitement.
“Big mistake,” he remarked to me, succinctly, at one point during the hike, when we’d been making small talk to try to make the time pass more quickly.
Now, I rejoined him, inside our tent.
“The latrine’s dug,” I reported, as I shed my wet poncho. “Feel free to piss and shit in it with impunity.”
“In this downpour? Fuck! I’d rather hold it in.”
“All night long?” I asked him, skeptically. “I’d like to see you try that. You’ll have to piss or take a dump, sooner or later. And don’t think you’re going to do either, in here!”
“Fuck!” he repeated. “This sucks!”
Next to this unschooled rural lad, I felt quite worldly and sophisticated.
“Well, we’re stuck here, so we might as well try to make the best of it,” I told him, philosophically.
“If this is the best of it, I’d hate to see the worst.”
I couldn’t disagree with him. Our shelter was undeniably primitive.
The tent was small. When we placed our sleeping bags side by side on the ground cloth, they took up virtually all of the floor space. We had to crouch to avoid hitting our heads on the roof of the tent—and we had to move slowly and carefully, to keep from colliding with each other.
“I would have to be paired up with you,” Marton complained.
“What’s wrong with me?” I asked him, rather belligerently.
“No offense, but you’re so damn big, you’re taking up more than your half of the tent,” he bitched.
“Sorry. Can’t help it. Maybe you can make good use of the fact,” I suggested. “If I sleep on this side, between you and the tent flap, I may be able to block out some of the draft from outside.” The wind was indeed so strong that it was driving some of the cold, damp air into the tent.
He grunted, in a way that suggested he didn’t think that was a viable plan.
I removed my muddy boots, and my wet socks. I decided I’d wait until morning to put on my clean, dry spare pair of socks, and so I wrapped my bare feet in a fold of the heavy, coarse-textured army blanket I’d been issued.
Marton apparently thought that was a good idea, because he followed my example.
In silence, we ate our evening rations, by the feeble light of the battery-powered lamp. Outside our tent, the weather had worsened, if anything. The temperature had dropped, and the air was cold. The shrill, whistling wind sent the heavy, persistent rainfall against the roof and the sides of the tent, in a noisy rattle.
“I can’t believe we’re not allowed to build a fire,” Marton said.
“If we did, it’d be outside, where it wouldn’t warm up the inside of the tent,” I pointed out, “and where this fucking rain would put it out.”
“We could at least have been given some sort of a heater for in here,” Marton griped. “Oh, maybe not a real heater. But there are those little chemical packs you can tuck inside your clothes, you know? You squeeze them, and that makes the chemicals break down and interact, and it generates heat. People use them to keep warm outdoors in the wintertime.”
“Yeah. But we’re out of luck, so far as that goes. We’re going to have to rely on our body heat to keep us warm.”
“Even though we’re going to have to be up at the crack of dawn, it’s too early to go to bed yet. What are we supposed to do to pass the time?”
“We could talk,” I suggested.
He looked at me as though I’d suggested something outlandish. “Talk?”
“Yeah, as in face to face. It’s what people did before the invention of the cell phone.”
We did chat, a little. At one point in our conversation, he shivered.
“Damn, it’s cold,” he complained.
“Climb inside your sleeping bag,” I advised him.
“What about you?”
“I may exercise a little before I go to bed.”
“Exercise? In here?”
I laughed. “I flatter myself that I’m as tough as the next guy, but I’m not going to go outside to do it. Not in this rain.”
“Then how?”
“Watch.” I stripped down to my shorts. As I did so, Marton gaped at me again, as though he was now convinced I was crazy.
“You’re getting undressed?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to freeze your balls off?”
“This’ll warm me up.” I began to perform pushups, using my own sleeping bag as a mat.
My tent mate watched me. “How many of those things are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I told him, with blithe indifference. “Until I get tired. Then I’l
l go to bed. Um, I’m already feeling nice and warm. And sweaty.”
“You’re like a machine,” he commented. I didn’t know if he mean it as a compliment, or as a way of saying he considered me a freak.
“Join me, if you want to.”
“Maybe I will.”
He, too, stripped down to his shorts. We did our pushups side by side in the close quarters. He was in good shape, but I was in better physical condition, and I wasn’t above showing off a bit.
“Feeling warmer?” I inquired.
“Yeah,” he gasped. “But you’re not even breathing hard. You’re inhuman.”
“This is nothing,” I boasted. “If I had a barbell and some weight plates, I’d do some squats. And work my legs, too.”
“Well, don’t let me stop you,” he said, sarcastically. “Feel free to go out there, fell a tree, and do your squats with the tree trunk on your shoulders, Hercules.”
I laughed.
I was shameless enough to show off a little more. I began to lift my hands from the sleeping bag under me and clap them together in midair under my chest, as part of each pushup. He groaned at the sight, and he didn’t try to imitate me.
Finally, though, I’d had enough. I slumped down and rested. Marton quit, too. We lay side by side, perspiring, taking deep breaths to refill our lungs.
“After that, I’m ready to hit the sack,” Marton said.
“Me, too.”
Using our sleeping bags as mattresses, we stretched out on top of them and pulled our blankets over our bodies. I reached out and switched off the lantern.
Losing track of time, I relaxed there in the darkness, listening to the wind and the rain, and drifting off toward sleep.
I almost thought I was dreaming when I felt a warm hand moving under my blanket, touching my shoulder, and then sliding down over my chest.
I assumed this was Marton’s way of checking to see if I was still awake.
“What?” I mumbled, sleepily. “What do you want?”
“Are you awake?”
“Obviously.”
“Are you horny?”
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