Sergeant Bull : Part 12

Author: Goblin

“By the Hitman”

Gripping his cock by its hairy root, Sergeant Thomas John Bullen closed his eyes and stroked slowly upward. His other hand took hold of the fat, meaty sac of nuts hanging between his spread legs. Bull’s balls felt heavy and full, in need of a good Sunday morning shoot, no doubt the reason he’d woken to find his bone buried painfully into the mattress.

Seasonably warm air gusted through the open windows, carrying the smell of autumn leaves and a trace of wood smoke into the bedroom. Bull smiled and shut his eyes. It was good to be home after his months on the road, though at first the house had felt so empty, the walls seemed to close in if he sat or pondered in one place too long. Having the guys over for some Sunday football would likely dispel the last of whatever he was suffering from after his almost yearlong trip. Seeing Inky, Sluggo, and Sledge might just be the thing that helped him put it all in the past.

But there were some things he didn’t want to forget, and those memories had woken him stiff as a brick and humping the bedsprings.

Stretching out on his back, he jacked his thick eight-incher from root to head. His thumb teased the sensitive trigger of nerves on each upward stroke. “Aw, fuck, Jamey,” he moaned. “Hot fuckin’ Texas dude:”

He imagined the twenty-something first time cocksucker’s handsome mouth encircling his knob and growled out his approval, masturbating to the memories of a one nighter in a cheap motel on a balmy September night.

Fondling his balls changed the fantasy, sending him back to another motel, this one in Seaside, Massachusetts, and the warm lips of a stranded Marine. His recollection of Chris Hendricks scraping an unshaved chin across the sac of his nuts coaxed the first drop of precome out of Bull’s straining piss-slit. Opening his eyes, he looked down, dabbed his forefinger into the sticky wetness, and brought it to his lips. How many times since dusting off his motorcycle and hitting the highway had he tasted himself on another man’s lips? The blinding flash of one particular encounter with three pumped baseball jocks somewhere in Arizona sent him beating his meat into overdrive.

“Derek…Sarge Finley…Jeff…fuck-!”

He arched his back on the bed and curled his toes.

Somewhere in Ohio, Jake Samuelson had licked the sweat and stink off his feet. The soles of Bull’s Size-Twelves tingled with the memory of Jake’s tongue and goatee, then burned with another – the pain of winning the Best Ranger Competition less than a month earlier. He’d limped for a week, but the incredible feel of Inky’s cock rubbing his own into shooting had provided him with weeks of jack-off material. Sighing out a string of half-groaned swears, Bull pumped harder. Precome bubbled out of his dickhead, lubing his fingers on each stroke down.

It had been one hell of a year.

Smiling, he remembered that distant, snowy night in Pittsburgh when he’d gotten a taste of true-blue Hockey player prick. Recalling the near-violence of the sex he’d enjoyed with Bruce Andreychuk pushed him right to the edge of shooting.

“Yeah, Bull-!” he huffed through clenched teeth. The bedroom curtains stirred again under the influence of the warm November Sunday morning outside. Fresh pinpricks ignited across his bare skin. “One hell of a fuckin’ year!”

He didn’t return there often in his thoughts, but as the pressure in his nuts intensified and he felt his cock go rigid to shoot, Bull remembered San Diego and the handsome, haunting face of Oscar De La Santos. The image proved so powerful, it sent him over the edge. Bull howled and stretched out, spreading his legs fully. He squeezed down hard, an action that trapped the spunk in his shaft and prolonged the initial shiver of his orgasm a moment longer. Unable to hold back any more than that, he released his grip on his cock and opened his eyes as the first salvo of juice squirted out, catching him on the chin. The next flew so hard and fast, it blasted him squarely in the face, spattering over his nose, eyes, forehead, even into his hair. The next two coated his chest. The fifth landed on his abdomen and in the patch of tangled hair covering his groin. The sixth and last was only a trickle.

Bull collapsed, drenched in his own seed. Releasing his spent, still-hard tool, he dipped his fingers into the puddles of sperm. After massaging most of it back into his skin, he brought his hand to his lips. The taste was salty and powerful.

Barely a minute passed when the doorbell rang. Bull looked over at the alarm clock. It was still too early for Inky or any of the other guys to be showing up. “What the fuck-?” he sighed, crossing quickly to the bathroom. Grabbing a facecloth, he mopped up the load he’d just lobbed onto his face and chest, then he pulled a large beach towel off the shelf, wrapping it around his waist. He plodded barefoot to the front door, peered out the window, and noticed a new SUV parked beside his pickup in the driveway. Opening the door a crack, he came face to face with the handsome, grinning mug of Sergeant Gary Calhoun.

“Inky-!” Bull exclaimed.

The other man stood dressed in old jeans, an older pair of sneakers, and a tight-fitting olive green T-shirt that showed off the artwork on his hard, pumped biceps. The left arm bore a half-naked woman and a ring of barbed wire; the right, a dagger and skull. Expensive aviator sunglasses covered his eyes. In each of his big, rough hands, Inky held a six-pack.

“You gonna stand there with your dick in your mouth, or you gonna ask me in?”

Bull flashed a dumb smile and opened the door. “Good to see you, bro! Come on in.”

Inky strutted into the house and set the six-packs down. He and Bull moved together on instinct and exchanged a safe, buddy-styled bear hug.

“I didn’t catch you in the middle of something, did I?” Inky asked. “Or someone.” He aimed a pointer at the towel wrapped around Bull’s flat stomach.

“Naw,” Bull chuckled. “Just me.” He then made a jack-off motion with his right hand.

“Shit, dude,” Inky coughed. “Glad we didn’t shake.”

Bull ogled himself under the towel. “Shake this. What the fuck are you doing here four hours before kick-off?”

Inky popped one of the warm beers and drank it so without complaint. “Got a call from the other guys this morning. Sledge had some shit on base to fix and Sluggo’s old lady’s being a real cunt about them driving all the way up here just to watch a football game.”

“Fuckin’ bitch,” Bull spat. “We do this what – once a month during football season?”

“I know, bro. Anyway, they’re gonna see if we can hang for next week’s game down there. Me, I needed to get out of the house, so I hope you don’t mind that I came up solo.”

Bull smiled and fired a playful punch at Inky’s closest shoulder. “Hell, no. I kinda need some time with my bud and a football game, too. ‘Sides,” he chuckled. “That’s more beer and steak for us.”

“No shit.” Inky took a pause, then lifted his shades. His deep blue eyes locked with Bull’s. “There was something I wanted to ask you.”

“Sure,” Bull said. “But I really need a shower.”

Removing the towel to stand buck-assed naked in front of the other man, he thumbed the direction of the master bedroom. “Come on.”

Inky nervously chugged down another swig of beer and followed Bull in.

The hot stream hit the muscles of his lower back, working out what few kinks he’d woken with. Bull soaped up his chest, nuts, asshole, and feet while Inky lowered the hopper’s lid, plunking down on it. “I been wondering, Bull. Seriously – why did you up and leave like that?”

Bull shook his head and plunged his face into the water before answering. “Truthfully?”

Inky took a heavy swallow and nodded. “I know what you told the others, that you needed some kind of mental health break. But they’re not me, dude. How long I known you – ten years?”

“At least,” Bull agreed. He aimed the shower nozzle toward his package and watched as the lather from the soap and the dregs of what remained from his last palm-driving session cascaded down the drain. “And all that stuff about taking a break, it was the truth.” Stopping, he reached out of the shower. Inky handed him the half-empty beer can. Bull gulped down a mouthful of warm suds before passing it back. “But there was something more. Almost a year ago, I got a letter from some chick I used to go with in my old hometown, twenty years ago. Turns out, she died soon after sending it.”

“What-?” Inky asked.

Bull nodded. “In the letter, she told me about what happened after I left. See, I got in a lot of trouble when we were together, and joining the Army was my only chance to get my shit together.”

“You and me both, dude.” Inky extended his fist. Bull made one with his right hand, and the two men punched knuckles.

“Well, I wasn’t the only one my stupidity hurt. I got her in trouble, too. Knocked her up. Only I didn’t know any of this ’til last January.”

Inky’s jaw dropped. “You had a kid?”

“Yup. A son, named Jason. She raised him out there, out in San Diego.”

“Dude, that’s great!” Inky exclaimed. “Isn’t it?”

Bull slowly shook his head. “Doesn’t want to see me. I’ve tried calling him. Shit, I rode cross-country hoping to meet him, get to know him, but all for nothing.”

“So you didn’t even talk with him?” Bull affirmed Inky’s question. “So how do you know he was even there?”

“I don’t.”

“Shit,” the other man laughed. “He learned you were his old man. Maybe he ran off and joined the circus.”

“Fuck you,” Bull chuckled. He cupped both hands together under the shower nozzle, and once they’d filled with water, he launched the contents at Inky.

Struck head-on, Bull’s target jumped up off the toilet. “Asshole!” Inky hooted. He grabbed the same towel Bull had worn about his waist and wiped his face. “Seriously, fuckwad. You remember was going through your head at that age? Things got fucked up, you joined the Army. Ever stop to think your boy might have needed some time to get his head on straight, just like his dad?”

Bull twisted the water spigots off and pulled the towel from Inky’s lap. Wiping dry, he said, “Doesn’t much matter now. Jason doesn’t want me in his life, and I’m still trying to figure out what the fuck mine’s all about. Still,” he said, cracking the outside of Inky’s thigh with the towel. “For a moron, you got a couple of brain cells in that gorilla mask you call a head.”

“I can even count to ten if I take off my sneakers.”

Bull waved a hand in front of his nose. “Please don’t!”

Inky fell backwards onto the bed. “Dude, I’m fuckin’ wiped. Last month’s little trip to the Georgia wilds done trashed me.”

“Getting old, boy,” Bull said. He mopped the hairy warmth under his nuts one last time and stepped into a fresh pair of black boxer-briefs. Adjusting himself, he fished a white T-shirt, some old jeans, and a set of sweat socks out of his dresser before joining Inky on the bed.