Sergeant Bull : Part 2

Something warm and wet slid over the taught skin of Bull’s fat eight incher. He looked down again, mystified, in time to see Ike’s foreskin engulf not only the head of his straining pole, but a good half inch of the shaft to boot. The pressure from Ike’s foreskin, which glistened with his own spit, was overwhelming. Bull felt the spongy, arrow-shaped spout mash up against his own. Both men grunted out a string of swears as their nuts, free to dangle in their heavy, loose ball bags, swung together.

E – Energetically will I meet the enemies of my country. I shall defeat them on the field of battle, for I am better trained and will fight with all my might. Surrender is not a Ranger word. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy, and under no circumstances will I embarrass my country…

Ike flashed a mean, swarthy grin and began to pump their joined cocks at a faster clip.

A lot had happened in the last four weeks – the sexual chain of command he’d established with Private Alex Reeves, and the respect he’d given and earned back himself from their First Sergeant. There’d been plenty of sex. He’d jacked himself off, and had gotten his cock sucked in the barracks, the showers, even in Samuelson’s office. But nothing, in all the loads he’d shot, had compared with what he now felt. Reaching down, he took his cock by the hilt and stroked it against the First Sergeant’s, fucking the other man’s foreskin. The underside of Bull’s pole erupted in itchy-hot pinpricks each time Ike’s cockhead pushed into him. It was as if, in that instant, that both men had been joined by one huge, pulsating shaft that sent energy and strength coursing between them.

R – Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission, though I be the lone survivor…

It hit him all at once. Bull raised up on his feet, curled his toes in his combat boots, and jabbed his cock into the slick, wet head of the First Sergeant’s skin-sock one last time. Just as he felt the blast of something wet across his shaft, Bull pumped off his first shot of come. The room filled with their grunts.

“That’s it, soldier,” Ike howled through clenched teeth. “Show me what you’re capable of!”

“Sir, yes, Sir-!”

One, two, three times more, Bull unloaded a total of five shots up into Ike’s well-stretched foreskin. He had no idea how many times the First Sergeant sprayed, but soon the deluge of hot juice was running down their tightened balls and dripping onto the supply room’s floor. The sound of their groans, mixing together like the spunk they’d ejaculated, droned away, swallowed whole by the sound of the January blizzard taking shape outside.

This is the Ranger’s Creed. Rangers lead the way! HOOAH!

From the top of his cap, down the neat front of his perfectly fitting Battle Dress Uniform to the toes of his polished combat boots, the handsome soldier exemplified what the Army expected of its men. This man, his gray-blue hawk’s eyes narrowed, his hard, square jaw shaved and steady, stood at attention and saluted, the toughest of the best.

“Officer Thomas John Bullen,” Major Ike Samuelson said. “Congratulations on your promotion to Sergeant!”

January 1, 2000:

Bull woke with a start, at first not sure of where he was or what had happened. The out-of-body image of himself standing at attention lingered in the broken mosaics of white light a moment longer before vanishing back with the dream of Ike Samuelson that had preceded it. Soon, the familiar contours of the bedroom in his house returned. The only traces of the dream were the sweat-soaked covers beneath and the huge erection he’d been fucking into the mattress.

“Fuck,” he huffed in a sleepy voice, rolling over onto his back. The action wound a perspiration-soaked noose around his cock. Bull whipped the covers aside and used them to swipe the beads of sweat off his forehead. His cock thus released, he reached first for the remote to mute the TV he’d fallen asleep to, then grabbed hold of his straining erection.

For a moment following the dream, he swore he tasted something other than the bottle of cheap champagne he’d downed that night on base at the officer’s club with a few of his buddies. It was all as he remembered it, the taste of his old First Sergeant’s foreskin after he’d sunk to his knees following their mutual eruption into it that cold, long ago night in the supply shed. A surly grin twisted the corners of Bull’s mouth, causing the stubble of morning growth to prick at his lips.

“Ike,” he moaned. Passing a hand through his sweaty buzzcut, Bull stretched out on the bed, kicking his Size Twelves and solid, hairy legs free of the bedclothes. He absently scratched at his fat sac of come-packed nuts with one hand and hawked up a wad of spit into the palm of the other. Before he knew it, Bull was stroking his stiff cock closer to the explosion he’d been fucking it toward into the mattress moments earlier.

Masturbating helped him forget about the fact he’d woken up alone in the bedroom of his house near the base, and that he’d spent First Night, watching the arrival of the Millenium, with the same partner he’d married twenty years earlier, body, heart, and soul.

The Army.

Half-shutting his eyes, Bull tipped his head away from the snow of the cable signal out to the window for a view of the snow that had knocked it out sometime during the night. The entire backyard was blanketed in white. Bull closed his eyes fully. Images of Ike Samuelson and the forbidden bond they’d forged so long ago coaxed him closer toward dumping his first load of the new year.

That old life was a long time ago, Bull, he thought, squeezing down on the center of his shaft while tugging at his balls. A very long a time ago.

But six hours later, after the morning mail arrived to Sergeant Thomas J. Bullen’s office on base, he realized how much the events of that old life could still affect the new.

The letter had been posted three days earlier in a plain white envelope, and had come from his old hometown, Seaside, Massachusetts. Just the sight of the name on the envelope was enough to cause his hands to tremble almost uncontrollably, the steady hands of a soldier who’d gone in with the first wave to Grenada, Iraq, and Bosnia.

Dear Bull, the letter read in Becky Kendall’s unmistakable handwriting. For a long time, I’ve wrestled with the decision of not telling you the truth about what happened after you left Seaside following the summer of ’79…

Bull read on, seeing the words, but not comprehending their meaning until he reread them a second and third time.

A month before you enlisted, I found out I was pregnant. I hope you can forgive me. I didn’t tell anybody, Bull. I couldn’t. Not then. I went out to San Diego – you remember my cousin, Mattie? I stayed with her for a while until I got my head together. But yes, Bull, I had a baby. A son. Your son, Bull. His name is Jason…