s by Jef Blitzer
I have always been a light sleeper.
And the weeks I have spent in a barracks on the edge of the world with a dozen Marine men has not changed that.
It kept the senses sharp. The sound of their heavy, masculine breathing. The sight of men sleeping, some naked, some in boxers or briefs, some in sweatpants, all covered lightly with a sheet, their chests rising and falling with their breathing in our close quarters, the dark of the room lit only by the moon. The feel of a man brushing my cot as he went outside to piss. The taste of my tongue, my mouth dry in the cool, dry desert air.
And the smells. The funky odor of male bodies. The smell of their breath. And the occasional sweet smell of ejaculate, as their bodies sprayed out their powerful cum. Were they asleep? Awake? How could I know? I would sometimes awaken during the night, the odor heavy in the room. I might glance at my watch. Maybe 2 or 3 a.m. And I would wonder. Had one of my buddies woke up from a powerful dream, and whacked himself to pleasure? Or had these weeks and months of isolation from women driven a fire in their big ball sacs that had shot forth in a dream in which the dreamer was not alone, in which his cock was driving home his man seed into a warm and unbelievably tight hole?
Days were spent in recon missions. Work was hard, pleasures few. We worked and we slept. There was little time for anything else, and no opportunity for anything else. We knew this was the way things were when we signed on to this division. Our skills were needed for desert warfare, and we were very well paid for our isolation and loneliness.
Was I the only one who missed not only women, but men as well? Was I the only one of my buddies who had tasted the pleasures of male flesh, who had enjoyed the sensual contact that powerful men had with each other, bodies locked together like animals in heat?
I wondered about it sometimes. Lying awake on my cot, the light low and men around me already snoring, I would brush my hand across the curly fur on my chest, and ponder what turned my buddies on, what secret fantasies excited their prominent cocks to stiffness.
We had been warned about sexual contact. Warned that the isolation could drive even the straightest of men to crave the forbidden flesh. And warned that the sexual heat would hurt camaraderie, break unit morale, destroy our mission.
So I looked sometimes, and lusted other times, but did not touch.
Not that I didn't want to. We were in total contact, seeing no one else, and seeing everything of each other. Showers were an outdoor make-do unit, and we showered together, our taut bodies naked in the low light of a desert night.
Guys with small dicks sometimes console themselves that size doesn't matter, that powerful men can have small cocks.
Bullshit. All 12 of us were big, strong men. We had pumped ourselves to big guns, melon pecs, flat abs, and thick legs. And our dicks were big. Not in a fantasy way, but manly, prominent cocks, sexual tools ready to inflate with little warning.
Jack and I were buddies. More than the rest. We shared something, a kind of understanding that flowed below words. I liked him. He liked me. We hung together, especially the days we would occasionally get in a city, flirting with the native women, enjoying the attention that our big American bodies got from them. It was hot. I had not wanted a man in a long time. Not since I had had a 6 week fling with a buddy on the rugby team in high school, 2 years before. But I found myself wanting Jack. Enjoying the quick slap of his hands on my back and butt when we played improvised football games out there. Enjoyed the sight of his built body. Enjoyed the dreams of his body before I slept and while I dreamed.
We talked sometimes. Our cots were beside each other's, and we would softly talk about our lives and our loves, what we wanted, and what we did not want.
And about sex. Stories of conquest, of predatory yearnings, of women we had fucked.
And about those we missed. About how tense it got in our pants during these long periods of isolation, and about the need to shoot, and the feeling of not wanting to be obvious, in this place where there were no secrets.
All the other guys were asleep one night, but we were not tired. We talked for several hours. Got around to wet dreams. About the funky feeling both of us had had the first time, him at 13, me at 11, of waking to feel our dicks oozing cum, the dream sweet and long.
I do not have them much now. Every few months, but nothing regular. I've always enjoyed the feeling in my briefs, though, my dickhead resting in a handful of my warm jizz. Enjoyed the feeling of rubbing it all up and down my softening penis. And feeling it perhaps quickly rising for action another time, and thrusting with my hips into the cum, squirting again, the load unbelievably large, the sperm covering my balls, matting my coarse dick hair, oozing down my leg.
Jack had the dreams often. He said that beating off helped, but not much, that several times a week he would awaken to the quivering feel of his cock ready to shoot, and he would enjoy the powerful waves of ejaculation as his cock shot. Sometimes he didn't even wake up, he told me, but in the morning the sticky evidence would be there, along with the memory of the dreams. I have really incredible dreams then, he told me there quietly in the dark. Really incredible.
I felt my dick stiffen to full power there in the dark as he softly whispered this secret, one of those secrets we would have both been ashamed to tell the daylight.
And I could not get it out of my mind. Wondering what it would feel like to be there, to have my face in front of his dick as it came to huge life, shooting out his man seed. I knew what he looked like soft. His cock was thick, enjoying a big head and foreskin that came to a point in front. And now I wondered what he looked like hard. Fantasized about the powerful erections he enjoyed and which he confessed he was embarrassed about.
We laughed a little the next day, about our "secrets," as we called them, what we had easily spoke about in the dark, but could not even name in daylight. And I could not get Jack off my mind. His powerful body dominated my thoughts, filled my sensations, played on my memories. And nothing happened. Nothing was going to happen. Nothing. But still I dreamed. Still I dreamed. I wondered what would happen if we were together, what ripped feelings would flow through our bodies if we were connected like I wanted to be, strong, power-filled men, heart and soul fixated on that stiff snake emerging from our pants. I consoled myself that our mission would be completed in a few weeks, that we would be back to normal life, that the tension that I felt would be gone.
I woke up suddenly several nights later. There was tension in the room, but nothing seemed out of place. Everyone was asleep. Even Jack. I was embarrassed that I would wake to stare at his face, his full jaw relaxed in the full moonlight, his mouth slightly open. There was nothing but the moon out here, and when it was out and full, the light was strong and all-pervasive. The moon was here tonight. But what woke me up. I still don't know.
It took a minute to get adjusted to the night, and I looked Jack up and down. It was warm and his sheet was thrown over to the side. Nothing on but his boxers. Nothing. The hair on his legs and stomach was dark in the velvet moon glow, the opening in the briefs slightly agape. I looked hard, and could make out the pube hair and the soft white flesh of his dick. I swallowed hard. The sight was beautiful. And it was quickly getting hard.
I almost held my breath, the sight was so beautiful. It was by now sticking out, pointed at an angle to his stomach. The slit was puckered open, the head so engorged that his foreskin retracted halfway back. His dick, stiffened and thick, was caught in the fabric of his boxers. The boxers, made for someone less manly than him, someone with a smaller cock, held tightly to the thickening shaft like the hand of a lesser man milking him to excitement. Somehow I knew what was coming and it did. The head suddenly became larger than it had been. A quiver went through his organ, and the cum shot. His breathing was heavy and rapid. Shot after shot of seed sprayed on his chest and stomach, and then there was more oozing as though the cock was tired.
He did not wake up this time, and I was glad. It was as though this monster cock I had craved for so long had given a show just for me, and I mouthed the words, half to myself, half to Jack, "Goodnight, my friend. Sweet dreams. Even more sweet dreams."
His dick was by now soft, and it lay exposed through the slit in his boxers, the foreskin once again covering the shining head. There was cum everywhere, and the air was fetid with the sweet smell.
I did what I had to do. We were close enough that I could reach over. My fingertip touched a pool of his seed. It was warm, and I brought it to my mouth. The taste was good. I savored it, my dick completed stiff, but my body somehow tired.
I lay back on the cot. It was enough. His seed in my mouth, I sucked my finger to make sure I had it all. As I drifted off to sleep, his breathing was again rhythmic, his mouth slightly open, his face again beautiful in the light of the velvet moon.