Doing The Base Commander Son
This is a work of fiction. All persons are intended to be age 18 and above.
Every base has recreational facilities for its soldiers. Some do better than others.
In our area, we have five bases. One has nothing for its troops, but the Army cantonment has a rock-climbing wall, basketball courts and a snack bar.
It’s the Air Force bases that are the most luxurious. The one I visited recently that led to this story has a theater, bowling alley and sports bar, in addition to all the usual things like gyms and pools.
You heard that right – a sports bar. It looks like every other sports bar I’ve been into. Maybe it’s not as rowdy because nobody wants to be reported to the base commander for being a drunken asshole during NFL Sunday.
My company was redesigning the menus for the sports bar to make them look a little more, well, “sporty,” if you’ll pardon the pun, and I needed to see the bar to get a feel for what kind of mood it gave off. I had arranged with the base and the bar manager to drop by for a visit, take lots of pictures, and explore the place.
The manager was a jovial woman in her mid-40s who talked tough and looked like she walked what she talked. I guess dealing with intoxicated airmen on a daily basis would put some bone in your spine. It would put some bone in me, too, just in another location, if you catch my drift.
Mildred – that was her name, and I remembered it because I didn’t think anybody named their daughter “Mildred” in the past hundred years – gave me the guided tour, explained to me which rooms I could go into and which ones I couldn’t, and even offered me a beer (which I declined, because one beer would have led to two and I wouldn’t have been able to return to the office that afternoon).
The whole time she was walking me through the tour I checked out this kid that was hanging around. I say “kid” because he sure looked young. Later, I was to find out he was 18, which is young, yes, but not illegal. Truth be told I have a hard time telling the age of guys these days. I’ve seen 13-year-olds who looked like they were in their 20s, and 25-year-olds who didn’t look a day over 15. You practically have to check ID before even raising the subject of sex.
The kid was scrawny. I know he couldn’t have weighed more than 125 pounds and I’ll bet that number was closer to 110. His did not fill his jeans and there was no perceivable basket up front. His thin face was highlighted by cheekbones that brought his eyes into prominence, and speaking of cheeks, his were a rosy red, as if he’d rouged them up before leaving home that morning, and a scattering of freckles. His hair was a mop of light brown, almost dirty blonde strands that wanted to curl and probably would if they were allowed to grow any longer. He looked like a baby-ish Anton Yelchin, the actor.
Mildred wrapped up her tour and cut me loose to take my photos, once again offering a brew on tap. I was tempted but resisted. Instead, I unpacked the Sony digital from the camera bag, attached the lens and established all the settings – I like to do that manually instead of trusting the camera to “know” what to do.
No sooner had I begun to take photos when the kid walked up to me and asked, “Why are you taking pictures of the sports bar?”
I stopped and looked him up and down. I wondered what he would look like out of those jeans and that button-down shirt. I imagined myself licking his nipples as my hands gathered his ass cheeks into a bunch and squeezed. Christ, I could feel my dick hardening in my pants, and a gluey layer of sweat had formed from my balls to my ass. If this continued I would start to give off that odor everybody recognizes as the scent of sex, that musky, sensual smell.
I guess my staring had caught his attention. He started to say something but I hastily answered, “I work for a graphic arts company. We’ve been hired to redesign the bar’s menus and I need some reference photos for the guys who’ll be doing the art.” I took a breath. “And the guys who’ll be doing the text like to see what kind of vibe the place gives off – having photos makes it easier for them to choose the right language for the verbiage.”
His face lit up. “Oh, cool! I do some graphic design work myself. It’s a hobby right now but someday, who knows. Maybe I’ll be a graphic designer.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “If you’re doing graphic design right now, you’re a designer.” His flesh felt warm and pliant against my hand. I gave his shoulder a squeeze and let go.
“What apps do you guys use?” he asked.
“In our studio it’s Photoshop and Indesign – Adobe all the way.”
He nodded approvingly. “I’ve got Adobe stuff myself. My dad got it for me.”
“Your dad has good taste in software.”
“He better,” the kid told me. “He’s the base commander. You don’t want the base commander being computer stupid, not in this day and age.”
“Maybe you could send me some of your stuff,” I told him. I fished a card out of my wallet and handed it to him. “We use lots of freelancers. You never know.”
I know. That was cheesy. But the kid was sexy as hell, and anything I could do to further my contact with him, I wanted to do. Sometimes that extra effort bought me extra benefits – in the bedroom.
His face lit up. “That would be awesome! I’ll send you my portfolio when I get home this afternoon. I just started college but you don’t get this kind of experience in any classroom!” he gushed.
“Oh, and we do have internships,” I said lightly. I thought he was going to hug me. I added quickly, “And now maybe you could do me a favor and tell me where the men’s room is in this place.”
He guided me around the corner and down a surprisingly long hallway to the bathroom. I found it a little hard to believe the guys in the bar had to go this far to take a piss – must be that government efficiency I’ve heard so much about. It was a typical military bathroom, with lots of unshielded urinals and three walled stalls against the opposite wall, none of which were equipped for a handicapped person. I guess there aren’t handicapped people in the service.
I took a position at a urinal and unzipped. The cool air felt good against my cock, and I felt the level of humidity in my crotch go down.
The kid stood at the urinal to the left of mine and yanked out his cock. Christ, I did a double-take. It wasn’t thick by any stretch; in fact, it was just as skinny as he was. But my God it was long. No wonder I hadn’t noticed a basket. That thing must’ve been hanging halfway down his thigh.
I let out a thin whistle and said in a low voice, “Goddamn that is a nice cock.”
He nodded and flopped it a little bit. Then he started peeing. “What it lacks in girth, it makes up for in length. It gets the job done.”
“I bet you don’t have any problem getting blowjobs,” I told him. And then came the moment I always fear … the part where I reveal my intentions, and hope they aren’t received poorly. Sometimes they are and I have to beat a hasty retreat, although I’ve never been physically attacked. But sometimes they are welcomed.
So I said, “I wouldn’t mind tasting that bad boy myself.”
He cocked an eyebrow and suddenly was years older than he had first looked. Something profound had changed. A kind of knowledge, or confidence, had crept into his demeanor. He finished peeing but didn’t put away that horse dick. Instead, he shook it, then walked back to the stall in the corner and opened the door.
He looked back at me and beckoned with his head. I needed no further encouragement.
I entered the stall and closed the door. By the time I had it latched he had stepped out of his jeans and boxers and was sitting down on the toilet. He spread his skinny legs wide, exposing his crotch and a good part of what below his balls. He looked at me with an impish smile and said, “Have at it.”
I started by licking his balls. He had a , saggy scrotum covered with a few scraggly pubes and it covered his taint so that I had to physically lift it and move it aside to spread my tongue along the backside of his sack and lick his taint. The taste was slightly sweaty and very aromatic of a kid whose man meter was approaching 11 on a scale of 1 to 10. Then I sucked each ball into my mouth individually and rolled them around before letting them slip out. I moved my licking up his bag to the base of his cock, and then flattened my tongue and let it glide all the way up the shaft to the slight mushroom cap.
He had begun to leak prostate fluid and I licked it up, running my tongue over me teeth. Then I took his cock into my mouth and descended until the head touched the back of my throat. This is where a lot of guys hit their gag reflex, but there’s a trick every deep-throater knows. It goes like this: If you can chug a beer, you can deep throat any cock. The secret is to open your gullet so the contents of your mouth simply pour down your throat without you having to swallow. It takes a bit of practice and a good deal of trust, but it can be done, and that’s what I did. I opened my throat and took his cock all the way down the base, so that my nose was resting in his fragrant pubes.
The kid gasped, and my guess is he had never encountered anyone who could take that monster of his all the way down. His hands immediately grasped my head and he thrust into my mouth, not that he was adding anything to what I had already swallowed. He raised his ass a little bit and I slid my hands under his thighs. As I bobbed on his cock, I began to finger his taint, prompting him to raise his butt even more. Eventually my middle finger found his anus and I began rubbing against its superheated softness.
We did that for about five minutes, and when I began to sense he was approaching a climax I slid my mouth off his cock. I dropped my questing tongue back down to his balls and then below them, my target his asshole. There, it was warm and moist and more odiferous of that sex smell I love so much. I licked his crack and around his hole, and then I planted my lips around his sphincter and began alternately jabbing and licking with my tongue.
I heard him whisper, “Oh God,” and his hands returned to the back of my head as I ate out his ass. I pushed at his rectum hard and was rewarded with a partial entry by my tongue. The interior was searingly hot and I wondered what it would be like to have my cock up that tight little channel.
I plunged away at his crack, slurping and licking and at times sucking, although I didn’t want to encourage anything to come out of THAT orifice! And then it was back to his balls, and finally on to that giant cock, that now looked half again as long as it had when I first spied it. I worked it over with my mouth, paying special attention to the head, and then I deepthroated it again, this time wetting my finger with spit and gently sliding it up his asshole.
As I bobbed up and down on his cock, I worked my finger in and out of his asshole until I developed a rhythm of penetration that produced a cascade of responses:
- He slid his ass even higher so I could penetrate him more deeply.
- He wrapped his hands around my head and forced me to take ever centimeter of that dick.
And as my left hand cupped and fingered his balls, he groaned with pleasure and blasted a giant wad of cum down my throat. It was as if his cock were a fire hose. I could feel the juice leaving his balls, shooting up through his cock and down into my stomach, squirt after powerful squirt of baby-making sperm that filled me up. Even after the major eruptions had ceased, his cock continued to twitch out pulses of cum that, after I pulled out a bit, I managed to catch in my mouth and taste. A savory goodness that coated my teeth and my tongue.
I wiggled my finger and gave his rectum a tease, then slowly eased it out, rubbing the ring of muscle that collapsed upon my exit. Then I cleaned up his cock and balls, already missing their taste.
I stood up. I pulled off a wad of toilet paper and wiped my finger. I would wash up before I left the bathroom.
“All righty, then,” I said lightly. “Guess I need to get back to taking pictures. You’ve got my card, right?”
He was gazing up at me with a heavy-lidded, dazed look of contentment on his face, as if he had just awakened from the nap ever. He reached down and patted the back pocket on his jeans, and smiled like a .
“Shoot me an email or give a call. And when you send me your portfolio be sure to include your contact information, because I will definitely be back in touch!”
And then I left, with him sprawled and drained on the toilet seat.
I had a feeling I would be hearing from him again.
Thanks to a good head light on my bike I came back that night around ten, hid my bike in the bushes and sat down on a bench near the turnaround in the back right corner of the parking lot. I didn’t sit there long before someone else showed up. A big red headed guy...
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