Soldier Boy

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Anal

He was lying against the pillows, propped up under the dim light, and slowly dragging on a cigarette, exhaling the wispy smoke towards the side. His fingers stopped momentarily over the ashtray on the nightstand, as if he were debating sucking the last of the life from the burning embers, but instead crushed the smoking end of his cigarette slowly around in a circle in the bottom of the cheap tin plate.

I had been lying on my side, watching the flashing of the television as it momentarily lit up the plaster walls of the hotel room. This was how most of my Saturday night “dates” were — false stories to my mother of how we were going to see the latest movie, with promises not to stay out too late. The only movies, though, that I watched were the array of pornographic tapes that Michael brought with him to play on the complimentary VCR of whatever generic room we ended up in at the Econo Lodge hotel on Abercorn Street. At first, I had been fascinated by the multitude of sexual images that cluttered the screen. I was seventeen years old, a senior in high school, and although I was not a stranger to sex, having two steady boyfriends before Michael, still the uninhibited openness of the naked strangers on the screen and their blatant disregard for societal taboo filled me with a secret delight. I watched, a secret voyeur on a fraudulent adult world that I rather naively felt that I belonged to. I lay my head back, bored with the images, and stared at Michael.

His face was turned toward the screen, but his green eyes remained vacant, as if he were just listening to the dubbed moaning sounds. Michael Capriella was a soldier in the Ranger battalion of the U.S. Army, stationed at Hunter Army Airfield. He was twenty-five, eight years older than I was and, although he was more hardened to the world and more experienced, I felt that we were on the same plane of maturity and knowledge. His body was lean and jaunty, his muscles tight, but providing him with little bulk. My eyes took in his chest, illuminated in a garish yellow by the bedside light, smooth, with a small trail of light brown hair that started between his dark nipples and ended in a small triangular shaped thatch above his hardened cock. He had classic Italian hair except for the color – dark blonde that formed a window’s peak at his forehead and was brushed back into a gelled style reminiscent of the 50’s.

His blondish-brown mustache was neatly trimmed and very thin, offsetting the thinness of his nose, which had a slight crook, like it had been broken in a bar fight and never set right. He exuded an air of arrogance – partly to blame for his Northern roots and the military training of superiority seared into his very being. He was like a cocky New Jersey, Italian boy who always had attitude about him. He was everything that I was not, and I loved the contradiction of this. I was the sweet Southern girl – smart, innocent, and always did everything right, never getting into trouble, wearing my prim private school uniform with my pleated skirt just an inch above regulation length and auburn red, long hair cascading in front of my pressed white collared shirt, transparent enough to reveal a lacy bra burgeoning with a woman’s cleavage. Michael, on the other hand, was the quintessential bad boy. He smoked cigarettes constantly, drove fast, and smoked pot on occasion, sucking hard on small twisted joints while sitting in his darkened bedroom that he shared with a few of his illegal bahis brothers in a ramshackle house in an older section of Savannah.

I enjoyed watching him, like I enjoyed watching the pornographic tapes, knowing full well that I would grow weary and jaded of both, knowing that my ambitions far exceeded this hotel room, which made these nights delicious, like a summer about to end.

Michael ignored me for a moment, continuing to stare at the television. He looked awkward, his naked body slumped on the pillows, his stiff cock resting on his stomach, his arms laid out in an arc connecting to his head, a large watch with dials and gears weighing down his left hand, while the right hand jerked nervously as if his fingers either wanted to stroke himself or light another cigarette. His feet pushed against the covers that lay in a mass at the bottom of the bed. Men’s feet are usually quite unremarkable, but Michael’s feet were somehow pretty, a light brown like the tan of his skin with the tendons connecting his toes stretched tight, his long toes tapered with squared-off nails filed straight and close. He had high arches and complained about having to walk in heavy boots all day long. I would often rub his feet for him in the afternoons.

I turned back to watch the screen. A bleached blonde woman was bent over as her partner, a heavily muscled man glowing with oil, pushed his penis into her asshole as she screamed with fake delight. I watched her writhing, moaning with each push, as the man fucked her harder and faster with each passing minute; I felt myself grow hot and wet. Michael slid down off his pillows and sidled up to me, wrapping his body in a spoon-like fashion against mine, the heat of his erect cock pushing against my backside. He trailed his fingers up over my bottom and around my side to playfully flick my nipples, gradually pinching them harder. His lips came down against my ear, licking and sucking. He suddenly stopped, watching me as I watched the couple on the television.

“Do you want to try that?” he said quietly. He paused, the silence hanging as I thought about what he said. I wanted to try it, but I was frightened. I felt serenely comfortable with the basics, but I knew that I longed for what I now saw before me. Often, when he was pleasuring me with his mouth, I would move, trying to make him brush against my anus, a hint of a touch sending me into waves of cascading turbulence. Now, however, I felt like I had been caught. I felt embarrassed, ashamed, and I couldn’t look at him. I was a virgin again, curiosity pushing me over a precipice of sickening fear.

“O.K.”, I whispered softly, my face hidden from his view. I wanted to say more, but that was all that would emerge. I wasn’t sure what was to come. Should I move? How should I lay? I figured Michael would immediately try to mount me, but instead he went back to kissing my ear slowly. “How should we do this?” I blurted.

“Patience!” I could feel him smile, laughing softly to himself. “Just stay the way you are.”

His left hand moved to my front, slipping down between my legs and arcing his middle finger between the folds of my vagina, moving quickly back and forth over my clitoris. I moaned and leaned back into his chest, his skillful fingers bringing me to a state of frenzy as I felt myself orgasm, my legs drawing up and my hand closing over his. Suddenly, his fingers left me and I saw him leaning backwards on the bed, illegal bahis siteleri pulling the nightstand drawer open and drawing out a tube. I instantly froze. I saw Michael open the tube, letting the glistening lubricant drip onto his fingers, as he rubbed them gingerly together to catch the drips. We had used lubricant before, especially if the intercourse lasted for a long time and Michael was slow to come. Somehow, though, the lubricant seemed sinister this time, and I watched with trepidation, like a patient watching a doctor before a procedure. I rolled back over to my side, not watching as he moved up against me. I closed my eyes. I could feel him moving his hand between my legs and with a shock, I felt his finger rubbing my anus.

The sensation caused jolts through my body and I instantly tensed, holding my breath. Michael continued moving his finger in a circular motion around the pucker of my anus, and in a swift move, his middle finger pushed through, gingerly sliding up inside my bottom. I had a feeling of nausea and I gasped out loud. I wanted to pull away, but he persistently held me, fucking me slowly with his finger. “Relax,” he breathed. I gradually became used to his finger and began moving against it, the strange sensation pulling me into a trance. He continued this for a time that seemed forever — part of me was yearning to beg him to stop and another part of me relishing his probing finger. I felt ashamed and submissive. It was as if he was punishing me. I felt like a child, completely under his control, submissive to his whims. I felt young and virginal and although I knew that he had probably done this before, this thought did not bother me, but rather filled me with a protective aura like he was the expert, the authority. He pulled his middle finger slowly out, only to push again with two fingers.

“Oooh,” I moaned quietly. This time, the two fingers together did not immediately feel as pleasant as just the one.

“I am going to try to stretch you a little, so it does not hurt as much.” His voice was low and deep. “Try to relax.”

I laid my face against his right arm, allowing him to continue his probing. It didn’t hurt. On the contrary, I found myself beginning to enjoy it. He tried pushing his fingers apart. “Does that hurt?” he questioned. I shook my head but did not answer.

When he felt satisfied with his progress, he gradually withdrew his fingers. I felt strange, as if I could still feel the fingers pressing inside me. I felt him lean back again, squeezing the lubricant onto his fingers, but this time, running his wet fingers over his erection, up and down the shaft until the head and base were gleaming. My fear had left me for the most part, but as I watched him stroking his lean, hard penis, I wondered how something like that could fit up inside me. It was definitely bigger than a finger and that had left me breathless. O.K., I reasoned — other things passed through. I could do this. I felt nervous again. “How should I lay?” I whispered. “Should I kneel?” I went to move.

“No. Stay like you are.” Michael moved in beside me back into his spoon position. He lifted my top leg, bending it slightly and holding it up. I could feel him moving to position and I tried to help him, but I felt awkward. Guiding his hard penis, he pushed against my anus and I could feel myself tense. He pushed against the opening, but instead of penetrating me, he rubbed gently back and forth, canlı bahis siteleri the lubricant slick against my trembling skin. “You have to relax, Angel. Just trust me. I will stop, if it hurts, O.K.”

I nodded again, unable to speak and willed myself to relax into his arms. All of a sudden, he pushed up and through the opening. He pushed minutely and it felt like fire coursing through my bottom. I gasped and tried to move away. “Please,” I whimpered, “it hurts,” but he was not to be put off so quickly. He stopped, but held me still, his hardness pulsing through the walls of my rectum. I tried not to focus on the searing pain, but instead watched the television, allowing myself to succumb to him. He pushed gently and the slowness of it made me crazy. With each push, he would let himself slide back out slowly, never quite exiting, but pushing again with aggravating patience. Each time, he would move deeper within me, opening me like a flower opens her petals to the radiance of the sun. I felt a combination of sickness and exhilaration. Michael continued fucking me languidly and I moaned with each upward push. He was now moving a little faster and I could tell that the tightness and the slick motion were taking a toll on him. He moved me slightly so that his left arm was still tightly clutching my left leg, but now he positioned his right arm underneath my side to reach my vagina, fucking me slowly with his fingers. The combination of the fullness of him inside me with the rhythm of his fingers sent me over the edge. I felt myself coming hard and I could feel the muscles of my rectum squeezing his cock, rippling up and down. I heard Michael groan and he started fucking me harder. I was still reeling with my orgasm and I now felt the urge to push him out; I was done and now my body was ready to stop. He continued, however, fucking harder, still carefully, but with more energy and force. All I could think now was that I wanted him to come inside my ass. I wanted to feel his cum deep inside me, like it was a mark to claim me with. I felt Michael tense and groan, pushing in one last time and holding still, as he groaned with ecstasy. My bottom was pulsing from desire, trembling from the force of the fucking and I felt Michael’s now limp penis slip from between my legs, leaving an irritating empty feeling, as the searing pain returned to remind me of my being conquered.

I lay still and trembling. I could feel the heat of Michael’s body pressed up against my back and I closed my eyes and lay against him. The desire I had felt was diminishing and pain was slowly inching along. I knew that I would be sore and I felt a great need to go to the bathroom, as if rubbing the area with tissue would appease the pain. The moment, however, was lazy and I relished in the afterglow. After some moments, Michael rolled to his back and I rolled to my side to face him, cuddling up under his arm, and resting my chin on his shoulder to stare into his neck and face. I loved to watch him this way. His chin was hard, his jawline strong, dotted with a black shadow much darker than his sandy hair. His green eyes were flecked and picked up the sparkles of the lights off the television.

Michael’s left hand moved over absently to stroke my face. I could smell the scent of my body on his fingers and this secretly thrilled me. I closed my eyes, the soft, stroking of his fingers on my cheek lulling me into sleep. It seemed that I was asleep for just a moment, when I felt a pushing on my shoulder. My body, naked and uncovered, was chilled and I felt a dull burn between my legs to remind me of the night’s activities.

“Wake up sleepy head,” Michael whispered in my ear. “It is time to get you home.”

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