Sergeant Bull : Part 7

Derek’s face went red. His goofy grin restored, he sucked on the mouth of his beer bottle, an action that only incited the unwanted attention he suddenly found himself at the center of. The ribbing wouldn’t end there.

“Fuck, I wish I had somebody to give me some of what Derek’s showing to that beer bottle,” Jeff snorted.

“No shit,” said Finley. “What about you, Sarge? You getting any out motoring across America on that hog?”

Bull tipped his eyes toward Derek to see the handsome young ball jock take a nervous swallow. “I’ve been getting some, here and there.”

“hot fuck,” Jeff sighed. “If my old lady offered up more of that sweet pussy of hers, I could give my right arm a rest.”

Finley groped the other vet’s nearest bicep and squeezed. “Thought this one looked bigger than the left.”

All of the men laughed.

“What about you?” Jeff asked, nodding at Derek.

The younger man shrugged dumbly. “What about what?”

“You getting laid or pumping that long pink prick of yours?”

The question sent a spray of beer foam shooting across the room. While the three vets chuckled, Derek stood and tried to contain the spill, wiping the sleeve of one arm across his mouth. “What kinda question is that?”

“Something we all want to know,” Finley said. The barest trace of a smirk twisted the corners of his handsome face. “Don’t worry, kid. We asked, but we ain’t gonna tell nobody the answer.”

Bull sized up the lean, tough pitcher who’d notched a win for the Army team and added his voice to the pack of jocks surrounding him. “Come clean – you getting any cunt or just jacking off?”

Red faced, Derek eventually admitted, “Both.”

“You got a girlfriend?” Bull asked.

“No one special.”

Finley shifted beside Jeff on the couch. “So if you ain’t got some bitch going down on you, who’s giving you head? Somebody on base?”

Jeff’s grin widened. “Some dude?”

Derek’s face, already flushed, now blanched. “What? A dude-no way!”

“Come on,” sighed Finley. “Big stud like our buddy Derek, he ain’t into that kinda shit.”

“Still,” Jeff persisted, “if another dude is keeping our star pitcher happy, shouldn’t we, as his teammates, be in on it?”

The beer in Derek’s hand shook. “Guys, it’s not like that-!”

“Like what?” Jeff kicked up from the couch to stand beside the cornered young jock. “Like this?” As the others watched, and to Derek’s shock, Jeff slipped a hand down between their star pitcher’s legs and felt up his sweaty, cup-covered package. Derek seized in place. “Sarge Finley and me,” Jeff grumbled, his voice a husky sigh, “we been eyeballing you, Private.”

“R-really?” Derek stuttered.

“Yeah,” Jeff said, though his most telling answer to back the claim came when he undid the belt on Derek’s pants. Top button and zipper quickly followed, baring the young pitcher’s bulging jock and the cup beneath that hid his gear.

Jeff gripped the back of Derek’s head and pulled him close with one hand. The other went fishing and soon had the star pitcher’s plastic cup off. Derek’s pants fell to the floor. From there, foot-stinking cleats and uniform shirt followed. Derek stepped out of his dropped pants, and with no underwear beneath, that put his square, hairy can framed by the white legs straps of his jock right in Bull’s face. The funky, sour odor of stale sweat and asshole gusted across Bull’s nostrils, hypnotic and undeniable. Setting down his beer, he took Finley’s cue and moved in, spreading Derek’s cheeks for a better view of the prize at their center.

“That’s it, Sarge,” Jeff urged. “Chow on his hole. Eat him good, Bull!”

He pulled out of Derek’s mouth, squeezed the ring of purple skin around the head, and painted the young pitcher’s lips with precome. Saying nothing, Bull leaned down, cupped Derek’s face in his glove hand, and kissed him hard, tasting his own maleness on the Private’s breath.

“You’re fuckin’ incredible, guy,” Bull huffed.

Derek’s striking blue eyes locked with his. “You, too, Sarge. You saved my ass out there tonight.”

Feeling his way down the star pitcher’s chest, Bull eventually reached the tangle of coarse curls lining the taughtness of Derek’s abs. A quick grope put a hard, red-hot piece of steel in his grasp.

Derek’s cock matched the rest of his body – lanky and tough, with an arrow-shaped knob and a hairy root. Bull joined Jeff on his knees between the pitcher’s legs for a taste of the swampy heaven there. The funky stink of baseball and sweat hung heavily on Derek’s cock. Bull sucked and slurped for his share of the young jock’s gear before passing it over to Jeff’s waiting mouth. Both veterans strummed each other’s bats while savoring the salty taste of Derek’s.

Finley continued to tongue-fuck Derek’s shithole from the seated position. At one point, Bull and Jeff’s fight to gain possession of the Private’s slender dick turned into a tag-team effort. They hummed their lips up and down, each staking claim to one side of Derek’s shaft. So much attention built him quickly to climax.

With Finley’s tongue jammed up his ass, six hands stroking his thighs, chest, and nuts – and two Army horn dogs slurping on his cock – Derek threw back his head, grunted, and sprayed nut juice across the faces between his legs.

Bull savored the taste of the young ball jock’s jizz. “Better than beer,” he huffed.

“No shit,” Jeff agreed. Both men kissed, sharing the first of the many loads they’d uncork that night.

Finley jacked on Jeff’s boner. “I get the boy’s pussy first.”

Bull glanced up, but kept sucking the other Sarge’s cock for more of the precome Finley dribbled in milky rivers. The hole in question jerked around the finger Bull had jammed into its musty tightness.

“Sarge-?” Derek gasped, spitting out Finley’s left nut. Panic replaced the fucked-up, goofy grin on his face.

“You heard your C-O,” Jeff said. His thick seven-incher hung out of the open fly of his soiled baseball uniform along with a set of itch-red balls that matched Bull’s in size. “Get up here and give Sarge Finley some of that hot jock butthole of yours.”

“Go on,” Bull urged. He put a firm slap down on Derek’s hard can. “We all want a go at your hole.

The idea obviously frightened their team’s star pitcher, but with three beers in him and all of them way pass crossing the line, he tentatively, slowly moved into position, climbing onto the couch and Finley in a reverse missionary stance. Once Finley lined the fireman’s helmet capping his long, bumpy rod up into the Private’s well-eaten and fingered asshole, Derek seemed to concede there would be no avoiding this. He lowered down to meet Finley’s fuck-thrust up.