by HotShots
“Harder,” he ordered and I redoubled my efforts. We were by now perfectly in sync, thrusting hard into our clenched fists. I was breathing harder, inspired by what I was seeing on screen. I looked down at my cock, rock hard and leaking profusely by this time. “Look back at me, damn it! I don’t want you to take your eyes away from mine. When you blow your load, you say my name, understand?”
I nodded frantically, my hand moving so fast by now it must have looked like just a blur on his screen. “Good boy. Now pinch your nipple with your other hand, baby.”
My hand moved robotically up to my nipple and I tugged at it, the feeling shooting straight down into my balls like there was a wire connecting them. “Lick your finger, then rub it on your tit,” he rasped out in his hoarse voice. My tit? What the fuck? I did as he asked, though, the feeling only intensifying as he watched me with glowing eyes. His hand was moving faster on his own cock, his breathing becoming more labored as he watched me.
“Say my name, baby.”
“Oh, Carl…” I said with a sigh. “Carl.”
“Now pull up those little legs. That’s right. Don’t stop stroking yourself. You’re doing so good, baby. Now wet your finger again for Daddy and put it on your rim.”
Daddy? Okay, this was getting even weirder, but I kind of liked it. A person my size had better like some ass play, and I was definitely a bottom boy. Enthusiastically, I began to massage my own rim, while never missing a stroke on my cock. Carl’s eyes were beginning to glaze over, and he licked his lips. I knew exactly where he wanted those lips right then, and I wanted them there too. I settled for the next best thing. I began to insert my finger inside my hole, teasing it in and out. His breath was coming in little pants now, and I knew he was about to shoot. I moved my finger deep inside and let my voice go all breathy and soft. “Ohh, Daddy,” I said breathlessly, “stick it to me hard.”
He threw back his head with a raw sound like a sob coming from his throat, and his cum began to shoot in long ropy strands from his beautiful cock. When I saw that, my own cock began to throb in sympathy, and I felt my balls tighten as my own release clawed its way out of me. I shot so hard a few drops splattered on my lips, and I saw Carl’s eyes were back on me, his pupils blown, but still watching every move I made. Deliberately, slowly, I licked the cum off my lips and whispered his name again.
He took a deep breath and whispered my name, my fake name anyway, back to me. ”Travis…”
We both stared at each other, our chests heaving as we tried to catch our breaths. A little embarrassed now it was over, I smiled at him—a slow, lazy, sheepish smile like a cat with its mouth full of feathers. He smiled back, a huge grin lighting up his beautiful eyes and making him look a little younger. “Until next time, baby,” he said softly.
“Yes,” I said with a heartfelt sigh. “Until then.” We both reached forward to end the transmission, and just like that, I was no longer an internet virgin. He had popped my cherry with a resounding plop, and I couldn’t wait to get more.
*~*~*
The next few weeks flew by, and I’d never been happier. We began to role play. Sometimes he was the stern principal and I was the naughty school boy. Other times I was a punk juvenile delinquent brought before the tough police sergeant for questioning. Once I was a pizza boy who got punished for delivering the pizzas too cold, but in the end got a very nice tip. It was kinky; it was fun, and I began to look forward to our weekly sessions.
I loved to see the transformation come over my sexy man as he always started out each session as his sweet, patient self and ended as my stern, demanding taskmaster. We still had our regular chats too, as often as three times a week. No sex, no kink—well, maybe a little, but mostly long, lazy chats at the end of the day when we talked about books we’d read, places we’d been or movies we’d seen. Never anything really personal, but I found him to be smart, charming and funny. We had so much in common, and I began to want more. One night I made the mistake of telling him so.
“You know, Carl, I’ve got some time off coming up. How about if I fly to Texas for the weekend?”
Carl got a deer-in-the-headlights look. “Um…I have to work.”
“Oh yeah? I haven’t even told you when I’d be coming.”
“Oh. Well, I have to work most weekends.”
“So I’ll come during the week.”
“No! I mean, Travis, isn’t it nice like this? I mean, do we really want to take the chance of messing things up if we meet and don’t like each other after we get to know each other better?”
My heart was plummeting in a free fall, but I kept doggedly on. “Gee, I don’t know, Carl. I always kind of thought once I’d seen a person’s asshole a few times and shown them mine that we kind of knew each other pretty damn fucking well.”
“Travis,” he said, his eyes pleading with me to drop it. “Don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what?” I said, really warming up. “Don’t ask to see you? Don’t ask to be a part of your life other than just online? What is it, really, Carl? You’re married, aren’t you? Aren’t you, you lying piece of shit?”
“No!” he shook his head emphatically. “Travis, I’m not married. I’m not involved with anyone but you.”
“Then why don’t you want to see me?” I asked, hating the whine I heard in it my voice. “I’m not asking you to marry me here. I just want to occasionally be in the same room with you when we’re having sex!”
“Travis, please understand. I would love that too, but…it’s just not possible, baby. Not right now.”
“Why?” It was like I was standing outside myself watching as my voice grew even whinier and my eyes brimmed with tears.
“I’m sorry,” he said, with a final shake of the head. “For now, you’ll just have to accept my answer.”
I took a deep breath and said it then, the one thing I told myself at the start of this conversation I would not, under any circumstances say. I would not mess up the best thing that had happened to me in years. I would not say it. In the next instant, I said it.
“No, I don’t. I’m sorry too, Carl. But if that’s your answer, I can’t see you anymore. Please don’t call me or contact me again.”
I reached over then, half blinded by the tears spilling down my cheeks and turned off the computer. And just like that, it was over.
Three weeks passed by. Three long, miserable, gut-wrenching weeks of no Carl. I thought about emailing him several times a day, but I didn’t. He didn’t contact me either. The next Friday night, our regular “date” night, my hands itched to send him an email, but I didn’t. In the end, I realized that if he really wasn’t married, then he probably wasn’t out to his family and friends, and my desire to be with him had put a stake through his deeply closeted heart, killing our relationship as fast as anything else I could have ever done.
I resolved to go on with my life and forget him. Not that I could do much of anything else, really. He certainly seemed to have forgotten about me. But it was easier said than done. Over the weeks we’d been chatting, I’d formed a real emotional attachment to Carl, and not having him in my life had left a huge hole that I didn’t quite know how to fill. Well, I knew, but I didn’t want to be with anybody else. I avoided the computer at all costs, and threw myself into work, trying to exhaust myself enough that I could fall into bed late at night and get some sleep without dreaming of big, rugged men with ice blue eyes.
I knew I needed some assignment that would take my mind off things with Carl. Something so totally consuming it wouldn’t allow me any time to consider those eyes staring at me with regret and heartache and something else I couldn’t quite figure out. Then my boss called me into his office with an opportunity I couldn’t turn down.
Little Rock was the home of the 39th Infantry Brigade Combat Team. It was a combat brigade of the United States Army, made up of soldiers in the Arkansas Army National Guard, and they had served admirably in support of the Iraqi Freedom operation,
attached to the 1st Cavalry Division out of Ft. Hood, Texas, back in 2003. On this tenth anniversary year the 1st Cav was offering an opportunity for the media from the various state guards which supported the Cav back in 2003 to become embedded with a combat unit. Each reporter of the four states involved--Arkansas, Louisiana, Washington and Oregon--would actually accompany a cav combat unit on a mission to one of the combat outposts in Afghanistan, called COPs and get a chance not only to interview the men but to experience just a little of what they go through on a typical tactical operation.
I was offered this assignment, and I jumped at it. I think my boss probably offered it to me at least partly because of the way I looked. The incongruity of a cute little guy like me with all those rough and tough combat units was visually appealing, and would engage a lot of empathy and interest in our viewers. Personally, I didn’t care what his reasons were. I needed something like this to help get me out of my funk. Nothing like being surrounded by big, strong handsome soldiers to get my mind off my heartache, right? At least that was the plan.
Each of the reporters would be assigned a PAO, or a Public Affairs Officer, who would take care of us and see to it we had everything we needed while we were in country. We landed in Afghanistan and were sent to Camp Blackhorse, the cavalry base where we would stay for part of the two weeks we’d be there. The four of us were assigned to a C-hut, a small temporary structure, large enough to house four to six men, they said. I would have to disagree, but I piled my stuff under a bunk and prepared to rough it for the next two weeks.
We were given a dark blue flak jacket and a Kevlar helmet, which we were told would stop rifle fire. This was very encouraging, but the damn helmet weighed at least thirty-five pounds and once I put it on I had trouble holding my head up straight. Actually not a problem if gunfire started. My head was guaranteed not to be up at the first sound of guns. Our PAO left us alone to rest up from our flights and get ready for dinner later that evening. We were to have dinner with the battalion commander, one Lt. Colonel Ike Morgan, whose reputation preceded him as real hardass, a man’s man, who, the reporter from Louisiana confided in me, was not all that happy about us being foisted on him in the first place.
I wasn’t all that happy myself, actually. I was seriously beginning to rethink this whole assignment. Not because I was afraid of anything—the base conveyed a real feeling of safety and I had absolute trust in the troops themselves. Rather, I couldn’t get Carl out of my head. I thought maybe I'd made a big mistake in breaking things off with him so precipitately. In the beginning, I’d told him this kind of relationship was just what I wanted, and at the time, it was. Just because I changed my mind didn’t mean he had any obligation to do so.
I’d let my hurt feelings get in the way without giving him much of a chance to work things out for himself. If he was truly in the closet, at his age, then he must be a police officer, a fireman or in the military, and having a hard time being true to himself and facing the possibility of losing everyone and everything important to him in his life. That he had really cared for me, I had little doubt. By breaking things off and ordering him never to contact me again, I had pretty much told him to put up or shut up, and I wondered now if I’d been totally unfair.
On the one hand, I didn’t want to be anyone’s dirty little secret, but on the other, I didn’t want to add to his unhappiness. If he’d been in the closet for thirty-eight years, it was probably unreasonable to expect him to out himself overnight. Wasn’t it? I still wasn’t sure, but I decided to get in touch with him as soon as I got back and see if we could at least find some common ground. As crazy as it sounded, Carl was the closest thing I had come to finding the one, and I didn’t want to have regrets later by writing him off so quickly. Besides, I missed him.
Sighing softly, I lay down on the bunk to try to get a little nap before meeting the colonel. I wound up tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable with my mind full of images of the last time I saw Carl online. The bitter words I said to him went around and around my head until an exhausted and uneasy sleep finally swallowed me whole.
I woke up feeling like I’d been dragged behind a jeep for a few miles before it backed up and ran over me. My head hurt, my tongue felt furry and I had the brain function of a not very bright chimpanzee. Dragging myself to the bathroom—they probably told me the military acronym for it since everything seemed to be called by its initials—but I was too brain-fogged to think of it—brushed my teeth and splashed water on my face. My hair, that I usually spent a lot of time straightening with a hairdryer, was a riot of blond curls. My face was bloated and creased by the wrinkles on the pillowcase. I looked like Honey-Boo-Boo on crack.
I rejoined my fellow reporters, and we made our way to the chow hall where we were to meet up with our PAO and be introduced to the battalion commander. On the way in, a soldier from Arkansas recognized me, and I stopped for a minute to chat with him and wish him well. By the time I caught up with the others they were already standing by a large table at the end of the hut, shaking hands with a man I assumed to be the colonel.
I couldn’t quite see him from where I stood until the reporter from Oregon moved to the side. I stumbled to a halt and just stared. Sweet Jesus, it was Carl. Wearing camo, looking tired, with bluish shadows under those incredible eyes, he was still fucking gorgeous. He looked up and spotted me at almost the same time. His eyebrows shot straight up and his mouth fell open—I’ve never seen such a look of shock and fear and longing on someone’s face in my entire life. I walked forward slowly, my feet dragging, my gaze never leaving his.
*~*~*
Lt. Colonel Ike Morgan
As Travis walked toward me, I couldn’t seem to form a single coherent thought. Nothing but questions tumbled wildly through my head. What the fuck is he doing here? Am I hallucinating? How in the name of God could this be happening? He walked right up to me. God, he was even smaller than I thought he was—he couldn’t be more than five four. He only came up to my chest, and couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds or so dripping wet, though his body was every bit as beautiful as I remembered. That thought had me blushing painfully. I could feel the heat rising out of my collar and climbing up my neck. His goddamned hair was flopping all over his head, with one big curl hanging over his forehead into those pretty green eyes. My hand itched to brush it out of his face, and I had to clench my hands to stop them. Again, the two questions foremost in my mind poked me again to remind me to keep my mind on the train wreck about to occur. What the fuck is he doing here? And what in the fuck is he about to say?
When he opened his pretty little lips, what he actually said was almost anticlimactic. “Nice to meet you, Colonel. I’m Dakota Greer, from Little Rock, Arkansas, WKRJ News.”
Dakota Greer? What the hell? He’d given me a fake name. Of course, I’d given him one too, but irrationally, I felt a little betrayed. I cleared my throat and grasped his little hand in mine. “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Greer. Welcome to Camp Blackhorse.” I thought I played it pretty cool. My tone was even. I didn’t raise my voice, or shake his hand too long, or throw him down on the floor of the chow hall and fuck him through it. We all sat down, with Travis—Dakota—down the table a couple of seats on my left. I knew I should be saying more, being more informative and charming to the press and all that, but I was having trouble forming complete thoughts.
Okay, so he was a reporter. From Arkansas. Had he known who I was all along? Seemed unlikely. Why would a reporter from Arkansas give a rat’s ass who I am? Of course, it was possible he was doing some kind of story on commanders in the military who were still in the closet, but that seemed a little farfetched. Now that he was here, though, would he make it part of his story? The thought made my gut clench again, and I almost choked on a sip of iced tea.
The PAO glanced at me curiously, and several of the reporters looked up as I coughed and sputtered. Not Dakota, though. He never raised his eyes from his plate, but his hand was trembling. I fe
lt an insane urge to go down and pull him into my arms to reassure and comfort him. After that, I could bend him back across my arm and kiss my way down his throat, open his shirt, and tease his nipples with my tongue. Or turn him around and swat that little ass of his.
Because that was another thing—I was furious—yeah, the cold churning in my chest wasn’t just shock. What the fuck was he doing in a combat zone? How could he expose himself to danger this way? I remembered the memo said the reporters were going to visit a combat outpost and dig in there for a week. Over my cold, dead body. The other reporters could go if they wanted to, but not my boy. Hell no.
I tried again to catch his eye, but he was keeping his head determinedly down, refusing to meet my gaze. Probably pissed off because I hadn’t contacted him in over two weeks. Or was it three? After his little ultimatum, I have to admit, I’d been pissed. The military had rescinded their “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy, but I’m a battalion commander. Things were different for me, and he would need to understand that.
I had planned on contacting him in a few days, actually, hoping he’d had a chance to cool off and realize I didn’t respond well to ultimatums, even from him. I hadn’t actually meant to wait this long, but I’d been in the field. And though he’d been on my mind—a lot—I hadn’t had a chance to contact him yet. Now, here he was, so close I could reach out and touch him.
The meal seemed to go on forever, and though several questions were directed at me, I don’t remember much about what I said. My entire focus was on the little blond a few feet away from me. When it was finally over, I motioned for the PAO, a second lieutenant named Weinberg, to stay behind for a moment. “Please ask the reporter from Arkansas to come to my office for a few minutes.”
He looked at me with curiosity frank on his face, but when he realized I wasn’t about to enlighten him, he nodded respectfully, snapped off a salute and went to fetch him for me. I took my time, stopping on the way out to speak to some of my men, not wanting to appear too anxious. It would be better if he were there waiting for me when I got to my office. Imagine my surprise then when only Lt. Weinberg was waiting for me when I opened the door. My personal quarters were next door to the hut housing my office, but I had a small bunk in there I frequently used when I was working late. He stood in front of it now, just to the side of my desk, looking nervous as I glared at him. “I’m sorry, sir. He…uh…wouldn’t come.”
